


Rising Thunder

by Cowboy_Sneep_Dip



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Ankoku Ryuu to Hikari no Ken | Fire Emblem: Shadow Dragon, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Airplanes, Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - World War I, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Historical Accuracy, F/F, Hey did you know Michalis is the worst, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Torture, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Rescue Missions, minor Fire Emblem Shadow Dragon spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2018-09-20
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:43:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip/pseuds/Cowboy_Sneep_Dip
Summary: Macedon, 1916 - The War of Shadows grows steadily worse as more and more countries are brought into the conflict, extending the scope of the fighting into a war that will engulf all of Archanea in bloodshed. Minerva, sister to the corrupt King Michalis, leads her elite Whitewings on secret missions for the king, missions that will change the shape of the war. Following a surprising twist of fate, Minerva finds herself without the stomach to obey her brother and plans desertion. Michalis imprisons their younger sister Maria in order to ensure total and unflinching loyalty.Caught between love for her sister and her unflinching sense of justice, Minerva strives to right Macedon's wayward course and bring an end to the war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to do a WWI-AU for Shadow Dragon ever since I replayed it a few months ago - the settings line up pretty well, at least in terms of a bunch of countries and a bunch of leaders and no one having very clear motivations or alliances. I've also been kicking around ideas about flying units being fighter plane pilots for a while, so I figured I'd marry the two ideas and here we are! 
> 
> AS A WARNING - My WWI/1910s knowledge is pretty rusty and supplemented by Wikipedia, so in terms of historicity you miiight want to look elsewhere if you're a stickler for accuracy. 
> 
>  
> 
> p.s. Bonus points if anyone can guess what type of gun Hauteclere is

The sky was a bright, clean blue. The dark orange of dawn had given way to the rising of the winter sun, and now it was clear all the way across the sweeping plains to the mountain-speckled horizon. Sitting in the cockpit of her scarlet biplane, Minerva grinned wryly. Clear days made her nervous.

She took one hand off the yoke and adjusted her emerald scarf. She buried her nose in it, exhaling and letting the warmth of her breath spread through her face. It fogged up her goggles, but on a wintry morning it was worth the warmth. She reached a gloved hand between her legs and adjusted a lever. The engine grumbled and groaned, lurching as she urged it forward, faster across the sky. She turned and checked her six.

Behind her, spread out in an upside-down triangle, were three more planes – each painted a bright white. Well, they had been white once upon a time. Now, however, they were more of a murky eggshell, speckled with mud and oil and stained with rain. The plane in the very back suddenly glittered, a white light above the cockpit flashing in quick succession.

Minerva nodded. Six flashes. Target approaches.

Keeping on hand on the yoke, she brushed her wildly flapping red bangs out of her eyes and leaned forward, setting a hand on her gun.

It was a massive black thing, all unyielding steel and polished wood. Its 28-inch barrel almost protruded out to the plane’s propeller, with a synchronization gear installed to sync up shots between propeller beats. It had an air-cooled barrel and was fed by a continuous belt of .30-06 ammunition. She had gotten it custom-made and fitted to her plane before rigging up her own mechanism for loading ammunition into it, since the gun normally required a two-man crew to load and fire. All in all, a wholly impressive gun.

She smiled, running her hand along the barrel to the trigger, which she wrapped her finger tightly around. A word was carved into the stock, a single block-letter label. _Hauteclere._

She turned and made visual contact with the three planes behind her. She checked the altimeter, tapping the glass. It always made her nervous, this brief time of preparation before a fight. No matter how many runs she made, no matter how many flights she took, she could never quite shake that feeling of nausea in her stomach.

She looked at the ground, miles and miles below. Carved into the plains, a zig-zag stretching for miles, were the trenches. At least, the front line of the trenches. Not their target, fortunately, since they were guarded by bastions of anti-aircraft artillery stationed at regular intervals along the trench. She tugged the yoke, urging her plane higher. Her team followed suit.

From their high vantage point, the carnage below seemed almost a lifetime away. Smoke rose from clusters of trees and occasional flashes of fire lit up the battlefield. At this height they could hear the gunfire, but it was muffled and distant.

She scanned the ground as they passed over the first line of trenches. The front line was always like this – a continuous stream of carnage, a meat grinder into which came men and from whence came coffins. It was a stalemate, currently. Gra was heavily fortified and better-supplied, but with convoys arriving from the south Aurelis could theoretically keep the war waging indefinitely.

Not that Minerva fought for Gra. She fought for Macedon, of course. But Macedon was allied with Dolhr, and Dolhr was allied with Gra, and Aurelis was allied with Archanea, and it was all a giant tangle of alliances and battlefiels and Minerva was secretly relieved that she had no hand in any of it. She was her brother’s gun. He points, she shoots.

The stalemate would hopefully come to an end soon, if Minerva had anything to do with it. She watched the ground, her gaze following a narrow dirt road that wound its way past the trenches, past the artillery bunkers and the barracks, into the deep woods, and eventually to the heart of Aurelis.

They followed the road to their target – a convoy of trucks that were scarcely more than covered wagons powered by diesel. Supplies. Minerva frowned.

The trucks were moving away from the battlefield. She unlocked the safety on her gun. She took a deep breath and yanked the yoke.

The plane dove, screaming through the air towards the ground with alarming speed, bolstered by the pull of gravity. Minerva’s stomach churned, dropping just as her plane did. She aligned the sights and pulled the trigger.

With a pulsing roar, _Hauteclere_ spewed a stream of molten lead. 500 rounds a minute, 7.8 millimeter rounds flying out at two and a half thousand feet per second. The gun cut into the line of trucks like a scalpel through diseased flesh. The truck coverings split open, torn to shreds by the full force of four machine guns strafing down road. Minerva reached the end of the convoy and pulled up, releasing the trigger. Her finger felt stiff, trembling, her hand still curved in the shape of the gun’s grip. She put both hands on the yoke, pulling up and circling around for another run. Behind her, her team stayed in perfect position.

By the time they arrived for the second run, the convoy had scrambled to organize. They had set up a machine gun and were starting to return fire. That was unexpected.

Minerva ducked and swerved, trying to move in a serpentine pattern. The first strafing pass had done considerable damage, but they weren’t done yet.

A splash of bullets tore through her wing and she swore. She could hear the wind singing as it sifted through the holes in the wing. She gritted her teeth and dove again, this time coming in perpendicular to the line of trucks. She reached up and flashed her own light. _Break formation. Fire at will._

The four planes darted and wove in the air above the convoy, the pulsing of gunfire echoing through the empty winter air. Even with their returning fire, the convoy didn’t stand a chance. It lay in a line of burnt-out husks, smoking ruin splayed across the roadside. Minerva leaned out of her cockpit and watched the road for any signs of movement.

Satisfied, she flickered her light. _Regroup and head back_. The four planes swept back into their diamond formation and flew away from the convoy, heading back towards the front line and back towards home. Minerva eyed the bullet holes in her wing with disdain.

 

-

“Yes, Maria?”

“Fourteen, ma’am.” The young girl lowered her hand back to her desk, confident in her answer.

The teacher nodded. “That’s right. And if we subtract the additional six, then we get…?”

“Nine!” came a voice from the back.

“Gordin, please remember to raise your hand if you have the answer. Anyone else?” the teacher surveyed the room. Twenty-three young pupils stared back at her, each dressed in the starchy white shirts and grey slacks and skirts of the school’s uniform. A young girl at the front, her red hair kept neat and tidy by a gold headband, raised her hand again.

“Let’s give someone else a chance, shall we?” the teacher scanned the room of blank faces. “No one?”

Maria lowered her hand slowly. She picked up her pencil and fidgeted. It always made her nervous when the teacher wanted an answer but no one was speaking. It wasn’t a hard problem! Why didn’t anyone else speak?

“Okay,” the teacher sighed. “Maria?”

“Eight, ma’am,” Maria said softly.

“Very good,” the teacher said, writing the answer on the blackboard.

Maria zoned out, staring out the windows into the school grounds. The windows were clear, now, since the trees that bordered the classrooms were dead for the winter. The view was usually blocked by trees, but now Maria could see the sky and the commons, and she watched as older students passed by on the criss-crossing sidewalks.

She doodled in the margins of her worksheet, vaguely aware of the teacher explaining the principles of long division and the order of operations. She sighed.

In her drawings she sketched out a scene, a valiant soldier bedecked in an ironed uniform, circling biplanes. She chewed her lip.

The bell rang, knocking her from her stupor. She gathered up her books and tucked them into her bag. A student bustled past her, an older boy, and her book was knocked to the floor.

“Whoops, sorry,” said the boy, shuffling quickly past her and heading for the door. As Maria bent to pick up the book another boy walked past, letting his bag smack Maria on the back of the head.

“Ouch!” she protested, but before she could sit up a third boy did the same thing. She winced, bracing herself for another impact that didn’t come. She opened her eyes just as the fourth and final boy walked past, muttering “nerd” as he let his bag hit her.

She sighed and picked up her book, sliding it into her bag with all the other books. She took a moment to compose herself. She wasn’t going to cry. Not this time. She had already gotten hell for crying in class, and she sure wasn’t going to let it happen again.

“Maria, could I speak with you a moment?” the teacher asked from the front of the room.

“Y-yes, ma’am?” Maria asked timidly, fidgeting with her fingers as she stood in front of the teacher. “Am I in trouble?”

The teacher laughed. “Just the opposite, my dear. I wanted to talk to you about a special program.” The teacher withdrew a pamphlet from her desk and slid it across the desk to Maria.

“What’s this?” Maria poked at it nervously.

“It’s an…uh…ahem…” the teacher spoke carefully. “It’s a program for students with family members in the military. I know that-“

“I don’t need it,” Maria said, sliding the pamphlet back. “Ma’am,” she hastily added.

“I know you think that, Maria, but it can be very hard. You’re one of my very best students – you’re incredibly intelligent and gifted, but I think your sister’s absence has been very difficult for you to deal with. I’ve noticed it, you know. The way the other students treat you. Your grades are slipping, your attendance is down, and I see you dozing off in class more and more. I think you could greatly benefit from a program like this.”

“Ma’am, I-“

“Now, I don’t want you to make a decision this instant. Or even tell me, if you don’t want to. But I want you to consider it,” the teacher took the pamphlet and pushed it into her hands. “Please, just…consider it. I would hate to lose my brightest pupil.”

Maria nodded. “Thank you, ma’am,” she said softly, walking out the door.

She trudged down the hallway and stuck her hands in her skirt pocket. She passed other students talking and laughing, whispering and playing. She took the pamphlet out of her bag and crumpled it up, tossing it into a trashcan as she walked by. She didn’t need anything like that. It wasn’t like Minerva was dead, after all. She was going to be back soon, and some day she would come back for good. The war will end, and she’ll come home, and they’ll be a family again.

She emerged from the white-painted double doors of the brick schoolhouse and walked down the stairs to the commons. The air was cold and she shivered, wishing she had brought a coat.

“Hey, Maria!” called out a voice. Behind her a sprightly boy skipped down the stairs, his green hair bobbing as he went.

“Oh. Hi, Gordin,” Maria smiled. Gordin didn’t have any friends, either, so they often walked home from school together.

“Did you get the homework for science class? I forgot to write down the page numbers again,” Gordin griped, shuffling through his bag.

“Yeah, it’s pages thirty-six through forty-two, and the three questions on page forty-four,” Maria said without looking up.

“Gee, thanks! Hey, how come you’re so good at rememberin’ stuff?” Gordin asked as he scribbled the assignment down. Maria shrugged and said nothing.

“Hey, losers,” called an older boy. Maria closed her eyes. This was not the day for this.

Maria was…an unpopular figure, to say the least. It was well known who she was, and as a result she was often teased relentlessly when not outright hated. It was her brother, after all, that got Macedon embroiled in the war. It would have happened regardless, sure, but Michalis dove in headfirst, heedless of the loss of life it cost. Many students had lost family – mothers, fathers, brothers, sisters. Teachers, too, had lost children, and were quick to turn a blind eye to the sort of bullying Maria endured. It had started off simply, with teasing and name-calling, but as the war worsened so did people’s attitudes.

They blamed Michalis for the food rationing, for the gas shortage. For the deaths of family, too. Name-calling gave way to vicious insults, to mockery and violence. Maria had been slammed into more lockers than she cared to remember, and walked home with a limp on more than one occasion. Recently this older boy, Aran, had taken to following her home after school, hurling jeers and insults on the days he didn’t just outright hit her.

Today wasn’t a good day.

Maria groaned, picking herself up out of the dirt and brushing the mud off her skirt. Her face stung and she knew she would have a black eye soon enough. Her leg, too, had a bruise filling in the red outline of the boy’s shoeprint. She hauled herself to her feet, sniffling.

Gordin had run away, which didn’t bother her. He didn’t deserve the bullying. He wasn’t the sister of the king, after all.

She dragged herself home slowly, wallowing in self-pity and trying to not let her dripping tears turn into all-out bawling.

She arrived, as always, to a darkened house. Michalis lived at the castle and Minerva was always off somewhere or another, so Maria lived in town with a housekeeper, a nice foreign woman named Athena. She spoke with a thick accent but didn’t seem invested in the war one way or another. She helped Maria clean up and cooked dinner as Maria worked on her homework.

Maria went to sleep early, exhausted from her ordeal. Despite her fatigue it took her a long time to fall asleep. She stared at the ceiling, mind churning. Her face stung and she couldn’t wipe her eyes without sending another jolt down her cheek. She sighed.

 

-

 

Minerva stormed through the thick double-doors, shouldering past armed guards and bespectacled politicians.

“Where’s Michalis?” she growled, grabbing a guard by his shirt collar.

“T-that way!” the guard said, pointing. Minerva shoved him back against the wall and stalked off, her heavy leather boots tracking mud across the ornate carpeted floor.

She was stopped at the door to the king’s office by two men holding rifles. As she stepped forward they gripped their rifles tightly.

“The king isn’t seeing anyone right now,” one said.

“He’ll see me,” Minerva said, grabbing the man’s shoulder and shoving him aside. She pushed through the door and slammed it behind her, storming up to Michalis’ desk.

The man himself sat on an ornate wooden chair, poring over paperwork. His red hair was long, almost tucking into the collar of his black cloak. “Yes?” he said, looking up from his work.

“They were civilians.”

“Oh?” Michalis raised an eyebrow.

“God dammit, you knew that!” Minerva roared, slamming her fist on his desk. “They were civilians and you knew it! It wasn’t a supply convoy!”

Michalis nodded slowly, carefully considering his words. “That is correct, dear sister. Altean refugees, fleeing the invasion. Men, women, likely children, too.”

Minerva clenched her teeth, trembling with rage. “How could you do that?”

“Me?” Michalis pointed to himself, the portrait of innocence. “I didn’t do anything. If I recall, you were the one doing all the work.”

“You…you…you-“ Minerva stopped and started again several times, pointing an accusing finger at Michalis.

“My dearest sister,” Michalis said quietly, smiling. “Are you questioning your king?”

Minerva dropped her hands to her side, hanging her head. “No, sir.”

“It sounds a lot like you were questioning your orders.”

“Of course not, sir,” Minerva said softly.

“Good. Now, I don’t think I need to explain how important it is that we win this war, do I?” Michalis stood up to his full height, looking down at Minerva. He was a handsome man, tall and well-built, dressed in the finest raiment of the Macedonian military. His black uniform was spotless. He reached across the desk and grabbed Minerva’s chin, squeezing. He brought her face close to his.

She trembled, trying not to let her fear show. She refused to make eye contact with him, even knowing his face was mere millimeters from her own. She could feel his breath when he talked. “Do I?” he hissed.

Minerva shook her head, trying her best to still her shaking arms.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear that,” He said, almost pressing his face against hers.

“Of course not, sir,” Minerva said almost inaudibly.

Michalis let go of her, roughly tossing her back. “Good,” he said, smiling. “Now, you have an investment in winning this war, too. If we lose, you’ll be tried as a war criminal. Provided you ah…survive to the end of the war anyway. You’ll likely be hanged.”

“Why did you do this?” Minerva steeled herself, trying to ignore the pulsing headache in her mind. “Why did you make me do this?”

Michalis sat down and grinned. “I thought you’d never ask. You see, you’re committed to the cause wholly. If we lose, you will die regardless. So you have no reason to not do what I tell you. _Anything_ I tell you.” He pronounced the word slowly, his tone sardonic.

“What do you want?”

Michalis leaned back and put his feet up on the desk, crossing his legs. “Your unit’s unquestionable loyalty. I have some rather…unsavory tasks I need performed. Below the board, of course. Not the sort of thing ordinary soldiers can be caught doing.”

“More war crimes?” Minerva spat.

Michalis laughed. “Please. After murdering refugees anything else should be a stroll in the park.”

Minerva clenched her fist, digging her nails into her palm.

“I’m starting to suspect, though, that your loyalty might not be as ironclad as I once thought,” Michalis said. He sighed. “Alas, I’ll have to find some way to ensure your cooperation before I can assign you these tasks.” He rubbed his chin. “Too bad there really isn’t _anything_ you care about, is there?” He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile.

Minerva gulped.

“Would be a pity if…perhaps, something were to happen to-“

“Don’t you touch her!” Minerva slammed her hand on the desk, scattering papers. “Don’t you dare!”

“Oh, she won’t come to harm. I guarantee it. If you behave, and do as your told…no harm will come to our dearest sister.” Michalis shuffled his papers and began picking up the scattered ones. “Your next mission is tomorrow morning. Report for briefing at three, departure is at four. Am I clear?”

Minerva nodded slowly. “I…I understand, sir.”

Before she left Michalis called to her. She stood at the door, not turning.

“Oh, and Minerva? Your…ah, what do you call them? Your Whitewings are not to hear a word of this. Do you understand?”

 

-

 

Minerva burst into the room, flicking the light switch and illuminating the bare bulb. A figure lay on a plain cot, roused to awareness by the light.

“Mmm? Huh? Wassat?” the girl lifted her hands to her face, trying to blot out the light. Her bright blue hair was splayed out on the pillow and she sat up slowly, blinking.

Minerva stood in the doorway, one hand resting on the doorframe. “Team meeting. My room. Now. Get your sisters.” She slammed the door behind her.

Catria woke slowly, still rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she entered the hallway. She yawned, stretching. What time was it?

She knocked on the next door down. A muffled groan came from within.

“Come on, Est. The commander needs to talk to us.”

Another groan.

“Alright, atta girl.” Catria smirked and moved onto the third and final room. Before she could even knock the door opened and her older sister emerged. She was wearing her hair up, the deep green hair tied into a loose ponytail.

“The commander needs us?”

Catria nodded. “Yeah…uh…Palla, were you even asleep?”

Palla shook her head. “I heard a door slam then heard you getting Est up.”

Est poked her head out the door, her pink hair mussed and sticking out at odd angles. “Hey, guys, what’s going on?”

Catria shrugged. “The commander called a meeting in her room. I have no idea.”

“Mmkay. Hold on,” Est shut her door and emerged a minute later, her pajamas replaced with a white tank top and green jacket overtop her plain grey pants.

They walked down the hall, each uncertain about what the commander could possibly want at this hour. Their commander was certainly known for…rather eccentric behavior, as Palla politely put it, but something seemed off. Palla took the lead, knocking on Minerva’s door.

“Commander?” she said softly. Minerva opened the door and let it swing wide as she returned to her desk. She had likely been drinking, as evidenced by the overturned bottle and the smell of gasoline in the air. Minerva sat down at the desk heavily, resting her elbows on her knees and hanging her head.

“What’s the deal, commander?” asked Catria, suddenly very concerned.

“Please…sit,” Minerva said softly, gesturing at the bed.

The three sisters sat on her bed and gave each other uncertain looks. Minerva sat still for some time before finally raising her head.

“The…the supply convoy we struck earlier wasn’t what we were told.”

“What?” Est was the first to react.

“It was a refugee caravan, some of the last remnants of the Altean population trying to flee Gra’s invasion.”

Est and Catria both lifted hands to their mouths, shocked. Palla said nothing, staring unmoving at Minerva.

“I will take responsibility for the attack. None of you are guilty.” Minerva said, her eyes dark and defiant. “I led the attack, and I will bear the consequences for it.”

“What consequences?” Palla asked.

“None, yet,” Minerva shook her head. “The king has requested that we be…a task force, if you will. For all the unsavory operations he can’t get anyone else to do.” She picked up the empty bottle and held it to her lips, disappointed when nothing came out. She screwed the lid back on and dropped it at her feet. “He made it very clear what would happen if we disobeyed.”

“Maria,” Palla said. She was the only thing Minerva cared about in the entire world. She cared for the Whitewings, of course, but that paled in comparison to her love for her sister. Nothing else would provoke a reaction like this.

Palla said nothing, but she knew. She and Minerva had been close long enough to her to know that it wasn’t the violence or baseless slaughter that had shaken Minerva so much. It was the idea of her sister coming to harm, an urgent anxiety that Minerva sought to drown in alcohol.

Minerva nodded. “We have another operation to fly tomorrow morning. At four, which means…” she looked at a clock on the wall. “Two hours from now.”

The three sisters all groaned.

“I know, I know. It’s just…” Minerva dug her fingers into her knees. “I…I can’t do this.” She looked at her unit, stared across the three sets of eyes intently awaiting her instructions.

“I’m leaving. I’m going to save Maria and we’re going to get out.” She swallowed.

The three sisters said nothing, waiting for her to continue.”

“I…I realize desertion means death. I will be hanged at the very least, though knowing my brother it will not be before being tortured. He tortures the families of his own men – I can scarcely imagine what he would do to deserters.” Minerva nodded, feeling the courageous tone of her words strangely at odds with the bleak content. “I am going to die, that much is certain. But I would rather die than be my brother’s hitman for a day longer.” She stood up.

“You three are free to go. The Whitewings are formally disbanded. You cannot come with me. I cannot ask you to do this with me.”

Palla smiled, looking across her sisters’ faces. They nodded.

“Well, that’s the great thing about it, commander. You know you don’t have to.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you listen carefully, you can hear me screaming as I try to keep track of all the countries in this game. For convenience, I'm adding the map taken from here: http://fireemblem.wikia.com/wiki/Archanea  
> Unfortunately, the names are a little mixed up since it's taken from the JPN version. So Archanea is both the continent and a country, and some of the names are different. Thankfully Macedon is the same.
> 
> Akaneia - Archanea  
> Orleans - Aurelis  
> Durhua - Dohlr  
> Aritia - Altea  
> Grunia - Grust

  


  


Minerva stared at herself in the mirror as she got dressed. The mirror was old, its frame wood-carved with intricate swirls of gold filigree. The edges were worn and smudged, and she got the sense that the whole mirror was distorting her image.

She didn’t look that thin, did she? Tired, sure, but it was early in the morning, so that’s to be understood. But as she pulled on her white tank top, she couldn’t help but see the ribs almost protruding from her chest.

The war rationing had hit Macedon hard, and the soldiers in particular were forced to make do with little. It was made worse by Minerva’s wages – or lack thereof, really. She was the king’s brother, and as such her military service was treated as a public service – she got no pay, no income whatsoever. She ate when the army gave her food and slept where the army instructed. And in this case, her quarters weren’t as bad as they could have been. It was a castle situated snugly behind the Gra/Aurelis frontline, far enough away that it was safe. Considering the stalemate still hadn’t broken, there was no sign of the battlefield moving any time soon.

She sighed and buttoned up her jacket, slipping bright scarlet buttons through black buttonholes. Her jacket was crisp and fitted, black fabric tucking neatly into a red and gold collar and cuffs to match. She sat to slide on her heavy black boots, then stood again to wind the straps of a holster around her leg. She withdrew from her desk a pistol and considered its weight. All pilots were required to carry a sidearm.

She stood again in front of the mirror, gazing at herself. Her bright red hair was unkept and wild, locks swooping to and fro, flaring out in the back. She grimaced and ran a hand through her hair. It’s not like she would have a chance to bathe this morning.

She grabbed two things before departing – a black leather pilot’s jacket, which she folded and draped over her arm, and a small leather wallet. She stopped for a moment, motionless, one thumb lightly caressing the worn brown leather, before unfolding it. Inside was a photograph – a family portrait, black and white and admittedly quite grainy.

Michalis stood in the back, his arms crossed and his raiment regal. He was frowning, as he did so very often. But that was unimportant.

Minerva had stood in the middle, dressed in her military dress uniform, a short red cape draped over her shoulders. She was resting one hand on Maria, in front of her, and smiling. Not the fake smile so often seen in such posed portraits, but a genuine laugh as she tried to corral Maria into sitting still.

Maria was a bit blurry, but even in the grainy photograph Minerva could see the smile on her face. Even now, in the depths of a castle miles from home, scared and tired, feeling the weight of the world – even now, she could hear Maria’s soft giggle.

Minerva shut the wallet and slipped it into the leather jacket.

She emerged into a darkened hallway lit only by periodic flickering bulbs dangling from the ceiling. The wiring had been done recently, as evidenced by the fact that torch sconces still sat embedded in the stone at regular intervals.

Palla was sitting outside Minerva’s door, her head leaned back and resting against the wall. She was fully dressed and ready to go, but she was dozing softly.

Minerva sat next to her and watched her, watched the slow rise and fall of her torso as she snored lightly. Minerva smiled and reached across, adjusting Palla’s white headband, brushing her bangs out of her face. Her hair, too, was a mess, the deep green locks tumbling over her shoulders haphazardly.

When Minerva touched her she snorted, jerking slightly before lolling her head back down and resuming her rest.

No reason to wake her, Minerva thought.

As if roused by telekinesis, Palla blinked her eyes blearily. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and stretched, yawning.

Evidently she had yet to notice Minerva sitting by her side, as she immediately turned and listened intently to Minerva’s door. She pressed her ear against the wood.

“Looking for someone?” Minerva leaned in close and whispered.

“Augh!” Palla flailed, startled. “C-c-commander!”

Minerva laughed as she watched Palla try and calm her sudden jolt of adrenaline. They were all on edge, and perhaps such a joke might have been cruel.

Palla pouted. “I thought I told you I hate being startled!”

“And _I_ told _you_ not to call me commander,” Minerva retorted. “What are you doing up so early anyway? We don’t have to meet for another forty-five minutes or so.”

Palla nodded. “I couldn’t sleep.”

“Looked like you were snoozing just fine,” Minerva smirked.

Palla shook her head. “No, it’s…being alone in my room is just kinda unnerving sometimes, you know? Like…it makes me think too much, especially when I can’t sleep.”

“And I imagine you’re unused to sleeping without your sisters nearby.”

Palla shrugged. “We’ve shared a room since…well, since forever. It’s only on excursions like this when we are this far apart.” She gave an embarrassed chuckle. “I always say it’s so I can keep an eye on them, but truth be told…” she looked up at Minerva. “I can’t stand being alone.”

Minerva nodded thoughtfully, but she said nothing. She understood all too well the loneliness, just as she understood the pain of wanting to keep someone close.

“What about you, commander? Oh, sorry – Minerva? Can’t sleep either?”

Minerva nodded. “It’s always like this before a mission,” she lied.

“Well, you know us. Whatever your decision is, it’s the right one.”

Minerva shook her head. It was so very far from the truth.

Palla closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall, stretching her legs. “That’s the nice thing about being in such a close unit, I guess. You lead, we follow, no matter what. I know you’ll make the right call.”

Minerva gritted her teeth. She knew Palla’s words were meant to be comforting, but they were anything but. She felt sick to her stomach, the worry gnawing away with greater intensity than the stomach acid ever could, burning a pit into her empty gut. She fought back an urge to vomit.

Palla was humming, tapping her feet gently on the stone flooring.

“You okay, com-Minerva?” She caught herself this time.

Minerva nodded. “Just tired, Palla. I’m fine.”

In her head, she ran through viable options. She had been so sure just a few hours ago – so sure of what she wanted. But now she felt the uncertainty set in as she tried to work out the logistics. She struggled here, as usual. Michalis was the one with the gift for strategy, for numbers, for plans.

They would accept the mission and take off in their planes – but rather than fly to their destination, they would make for Macedon. From there…find Maria, and get out.

Minerva closed her eyes and let out a sigh. It wasn’t half a plan. Not even a quarter of a plan. In fact, it was almost a negative plan – it added more complications, but complications she didn’t even know how to quantify. She silently cursed herself.

Okay, let’s start with the basics. We know nothing about the mission, but given their current position and the tide of the war, it will most likely be a mission in Aurelis or Archanea. Possibly Khadein, but unlikely given that they are – for now – neutral ground, except where Aurelian soldiers operate.

Both options put them farther from Macedon. Archanea would make traveling by boat more viable, Aurelis by land. Port Warren would be an option for Archanea – getting a boat from there to Macedon would be difficult but not impossible. During wartime captains are willing to do anything for a price.

Minerva groaned. She had no money at all, let alone enough to buy off a ship captain. The three sisters had their wages, but she could not ask them to part with their livelihood for the sake of her own sister.

And of course, deserting meant abandoning all that. Abandoning her source of food and shelter, abandoning the girls’ jobs, abandoning any chance for refueling the planes or buying ammunition or rations. New clothes, too, so they’d be stuck behind enemy lines in their military uniforms. She felt the panic sinking in again. Michalis would know what to do. He was always so very good at this.

“You awake, Commander?”

Minerva blinked. Est crouched in front of her, waving her hand. Somehow her pink hair was immaculate, tightly styled and neat. It was a wasted effort, of course, because the wind would instantly mess up any semblance of hair styling, but Est did it every morning anyway.

“Sorry, I must have dozed off,” Minerva muttered. Beside her, Catria nudged Palla’s sleeping form with her boot.

Palla instantly woke, lunging out and grasping Catria’s leg.

“Woah, hey, it’s me!” Catria shouted.

“I know, you idiot! Don’t kick me!” Palla tugged her leg and sent her sprawling backwards, crashing into the far wall of the hallway.

“Ladies, please,” Minerva scolded, brushing herself off as she stood up.

Est scowled at them, then when she spotted Minerva watching her she turned and smiled, the portrait of innocence. Catria smacked her arm.

“ _Ladies,_ ” Minerva said again, sternly.

“Sorry,” Est bowed her head.

“Sorry, Commander.” Catria followed suit.

“Right. Shall we?”

“Hey, how come Palla doesn’t have to apologize?” Est pouted.

“I’m oldest, which means I outrank you,” Palla said, strutting past them. “Now form up, ladies.”

Minerva rolled her eyes, but the barest hint of a smile was gracing her lips. “Come on. We have work to do.”

 

-

 

The airfield was bustling even at such an early hour, the sounds of running engines and shouting mechanics filling the morning air and breaking any appearance of early-morning stillness. Minerva rubbed her eyes blearily as they trudged out onto the grassy expanse. Breakfast had been meager – hard black bread and strips of dried meat, and her stomach was still growling as she made her way to her plane. She began working her way through the preflight checks.

The mission was theoretically simple – Nyna, the princess of Archanea, was promised to marry Hardin, the younger brother of the king of Aurelis. It was a diplomatic marriage, and one that was intended to secure the alliance between Archanea and Aurelis for good. Michalis didn’t like that.

Princess Nyna would be travling in a small convoy of armored cars up the Archanean coast to visit Hardin at the Aurelian front. It was a morale-boosting mission and a show of good faith that Archanean had confidence in Aurelis’ ability to stave off the Gra invasion.

Unless, of course, the princess never arrives. And that was what the Whitewings were instructed to arrange. They were to fly across the strait that divided Gra and Archanea, follow the Aurelian coast road, and destroy the princess’ convoy.

At no point during the briefing did any of the Whitewings point out that assassinating royal figureheads was absolutely an act of terrorism, nor did they object to the insistence that the princess and all her guard should be obliterated with extreme prejudice. She was a citizen, not a soldier, and thus was supposed to be afforded non-combatant protections.

Minerva picked at her teeth, trying to work out a tough sinew of salted meat that had lodged itself between her molars.

It was too many names and countries and places. She understood the mission – cross the strait, follow the road, light up anything in their path. Easy.

“Ladies!” a voice called out loudly, muffled by the din of running engines. Minerva growled. She could call the Whitewings ladies, but from anyone else – particularly men - it sounded patronizing.

They were summoned from their preparations by a bespectacled man in a black suit who was pressing his bowler hat against his head, trying to keep it from being blown off by the gusts of wind from spinning propellers.

“What do you want?” Minerva glared at him, her arms folded over her chest. It was a chilly morning, and she was grateful that warming herself up and looking cross could be accomplished by the same action.

“A gift, from your brother!” the man replied. He withdrew from his jacket four envelopes, which he then passed to each Whitewing.

Catria shook hers and peered at it before ripping it open. She withdrew a wad of bills held together with twine. She stared, open-mouthed, before looking back at the man.

“A reward for your obedience,” he said, smiling. “To be doubled upon your return, of course.”

“We don’t want it!” snapped Palla. “This money should be going to the people, not as a bribe for soldiers! We already get paid.”

Minerva felt her heart leap into her throat. She couldn’t contradict Palla, of course. But at the same time…she stared at the bills in Catria’s hand, then looked at her own envelope. It was quite possibly more money than she had ever held in her life.

“Keep it,” the man smiled again, a grin that set Minerva’s teeth on edge. “It is a necessary expense for the war effort – to ensure that our most prized servants are kept fed, clothes, and comfortable.” He bowed and left the four girls standing alone on the airfield.

“Commander?” Est turned to Minerva. “What do we do?”

Minerva was still staring at her envelope.

“We can’t keep it, right, Commander?” Palla asked. “It’s blood money.”

Minerva nodded slowly but still said nothing.

“Yeah, but if we’re-“ Catria lowered her voice. “If we’re… _you know_ , then we need all the money we can get!”

“We keep the money,” Minerva said, slipping the envelope inside her jacket. “Catria is right, we’ll need whatever advantages we can take.” She turned to face the sisters. “Go get your planes ready. We make for the strait. Wait for my signal to fire.”

Catria and Est moved out immediately, but Palla lagged behind.

“Commander,” she said sternly.

Minerva was still standing motionless.

“What are you thinking, commander?” Palla asked again.

“Go ready your plane, Palla.”

“Commander,” Palla stood in front of her, glaring.

“Go, Palla.” Minerva pointed at her plane.

“What happened to the plan?”

“Just follow my lead, Palla.” Minerva tried walking past her but Palla stopped her.

“You aren’t seriously thinking about abandoning your plan, are you?” Palla grabbed her shoulder. “What happened to not being your brother’s hired killed?!”

“Keep your voice down!” Minerva hissed, shoving her back. “Listen to me. We don’t have any plan. I can’t come up with anything on the fly. We should just keep our heads down and do what we’re told until we can figure something out.” She stalked past Palla.

“I can’t believe you,” Palla snapped at her back. “He waves a stack of bills in front of your face and you roll over. He has you trained like a dog.”

Minerva stopped, still turned away from Palla.

“We got into the Whitewings to defend Macedon,” Palla continued. “To serve our people. Not to be killers. What would your father-”

Minerva whipped around and lunged, pressing her face almost against Palla’s. “If you mention my father again, I will have you court-martialed.” She took a step back. “I am your commanding officer, pilot. Get to your plane and ready for departure.”

“Why are you doing this?” Palla’s voice softened. “Minerva, wh-“

“I am your commanding officer,” Minerva repeated. “You will address me with respect.” She said the words but her tone felt hollow and vacant, as if she were simply going through the motions.

“What are you afraid of?” Palla took a cautious step forward.

Minerva glared, but made no move. Palla took another step.

“Commander, it’s okay. We’ll follow your lead.”

Minerva lowered her head. “I…”

“We’ll follow you to the ends of the Earth, commander. And we aren’t giving up on you, or your sister, okay?” She took another step. “We all know what it’s like to have siblings, trust me.” She laughed nervously, unsure if it would be disrespectful. “I…I would die for Est, commander. Catria, too. If something happened to them that I could have prevented, I don’t know what I would do. I don’t know if I could live with that.”

Minerva wrapped her arms around herself.

“I know you’re scared, commander. I am too. But I don’t think we should abandon your plan. A risk for comfort is far greater than miserable complacency. ” She took a deep breath. “We’ll follow your lead, as always.” She touched Minerva’s elbow softly as she walked past.

 

-

 

“Maria?” a voice called out to her as she made her way down the sidewalk. It was a cold morning, the sun creeping over the horizon and casting a yellow glow over the town.

Maria didn’t look up. She was starting at her feet, trudging slowly towards school.

“Maria?” the voice called again.

She looked up. The voice was coming from a black motorcar parked along the sidewalk in front of her. A man stepped out of the car, a tall man in a dark suit. Maria backed away cautiously.

“M-my sister told me not to talk to strangers,” she stammered as the man approached her.

“Of course she did. She’s a good sister.” The way the man spoke made Maria nervous. “But we aren’t strangers. I’m good friends with Minerva. We both work for Michalis.”

Maria let out a breath and loosened up. If it was just another army guy, it would probably be fine.

“We just need to talk about your sister,” the man said. “If you could please come with us.” He opened the motorcar door.

Maria stared into the black interior of the car. The backseat was empty, a bench of red leather. The man took a step closer.

“I-I need to get to school,” Maria shook her head.

“I don’t think you understand,” the man said hoarsely. “It is not a request. It is a command.” He roughly grasped Maria’s arm and she felt the cold steel of a pistol muzzle press against her side.

“Get in the car.”

 

-

  


 

Palla coasted at the back of their diamond formation, her eyes fixed on the scarlet rudder in front of her. Minerva had taken off and headed for the strait, as expected. The question now was whether or not she would follow her brother’s commands. Palla sighed and adjusted her goggles.

Her hair was tied up in a thick green braid and tucked into the back of her jacket to keep it from flapping in her face. She gently nudged the yoke this way and that, following behind her sisters.

On the horizon, the sea appeared, sparkling and black in the early morning. The sun was creeping over the horizon slowly, but it was still at that time in the morning when the sky was dark and the horizon glowed orange. Palla loved watching the sunrise.

But even now, she had an unshakeable feeling of anxiety pressing against her. She knew that Minerva was bothered, but by what she could only guess. To make matters worse, the only commands she could issue were via their flashing light system. If she does something rash –

Her thoughts were interrupted by Minerva diving suddenly, careening towards the sea.

Like that, Palla thought as she followed suit. They were still on track, making a beeline for Aurelis, but Minerva had them flying low, just barely skimming the tops of the waves. They sped forwards across the water, into the bright sun of some unknown day.


	3. Chapter 3

Minerva shifted uncomfortably in her seat. It all felt off.

She felt that, somehow, he knew. He knew that she was abandoning her country, her king, her brother. Now, though, she knew she was safe. The thoughts themselves weren’t dangerous, only the actions that accompanied them. But the thoughts remained, and while they did, she felt anxious.

She stared straight ahead into the ever-encroaching horizon. The motor thrummed in her ears, almost drowning out the pulses of blood. Her heartbeat seemed so very, very loud. She had gone back and forth a dozen times, and likely would a dozen more. She had spoken with such confidence to the Whitewings and yet, when it came time to face her decision, she faltered. She clutched tightly to the yoke, her fingers digging into the rough grip, her fist tensing around it. She always did this. When it came time to act, she faltered.

It was why Michalis was king and she was not. He was a man who acted. For good or ill, he saw what he wanted and took it.

It pressed down on her like some impossible weight, the burden of Atlas crushing her. She was responsible for not only her own decisions, but those of her subordinates as well – she was condemning the Whitewings to death. A slow, torturous death at the very least. Est was still practically a child, and her sisters weren’t much older. Not that it mattered.

The best case scenario would be that they die before the Macedonian army had a chance to catch them.

She shook her head and reached one hand up, wiping fog from her goggles. She couldn’t think like that. Not now. This was the moment that the plan hinged upon – failure here meant…

She banked sharply, looking up and checking that the three planes behind her followed suit. She smiled. Truly, they would follow her to the ends of the Earth – they would stumble onto the shores of hell together if she asked them to. And that was likely where they would end up, at any rate.

They followed low along the water, the coast of Archanea approaching rapidly, a brown line on the horizon coming into focus – lumps of color turning into hills and mountains.

The plan was simple – in theory. They were going to land in the open fields that adorned the coast, nestled into inlets and bays. From there, they would change out of their uniforms – each of them brought a set of unmarked clothes. They would find a way to refuel, strip the paint from their planes, and fly south. They’d travel as far south as Deil, where they would refuel again and cross the ocean back towards Macedon. Then…

Then what?

From there it was a mystery. Even that plan was flimsy at best. It was based entirely on assumptions.

She peered down at the coast. Thin grey beaches bumped up almost immediately against dense forest. The four planes pulled up, careening skyward. With a suddenness that was almost startling, they found themselves cruising over flashes of green and brown rather than sparkling blue.

Minerva sighed, gazing out the side of her plane down at the land below.

Archanea. The nation from which their continent had derived its name. Just another piece in a puzzle that, to Minerva, might as well have been being assembled in another room. It was a broad, spacious nation populated by kind and gentle people. They hadn’t industrialized to the same extent as Macedon, and as a result it was a nation that Gra had expected to crush. They had put up quite the fight, at least for ‘farmers with pitchforks’, as Michalis had so kindly put it.

It wasn’t pitchforks that tore into Minerva’s wings with bolts of orange light, though.

She took a second to react, and in that instant another burst of gunfire slashed across the cockpit. She felt a bullet pass through the floor of the plane and pierce her leg before she had even stopped staring at the smoking holes in her wing.

Her serene contemplation was shattered in an instant, in a hot flash of pain and smoke and metal. She finally got her bearings, the pain in her leg driving her back into reality. She banked hard and weaved as she tried to pick out where the gunfire was coming from. She turned and scanned the ground far below.

Another burst of light flashed from a clearing in the forest, sending streams of orange lead at the other Whitewings.

She gritted her teeth and unlatched the safety on her gun. So much for a swift and quiet entry. Someone must have spotted them and deployed anti-aircraft vehicles to the coast. Or there was a spy among their own ranks. Or-

Her mind raced with possibilities as she heard a loud crackle of gunfire behind her. She winced, pressing one hand against her bleeding leg and looking over her shoulder.

Est had opened fire. Her white plane dove for the anti-aircraft installation.

“Idiot!” Minerva screamed, her voice yanked from her throat in the rush of wind.

She pulled out of her banked curve and held her altitude steady, drawing a thin trail of smoke along the ground. Palla pulled up next to her and made her best effort to keep her plane at a steady pace. She and Minerva made frantic eye contact, each trying to communicate a vast array of complex and sudden emotions through nothing but meaningful glares.

Minerva let out an exasperated growl and flipped her light. _Weapons hot. Fire at will._

Palla stared at her. The only thing between their glares was the rush of frigid wind. She shook her head.

Minerva’s steel gaze was fixed forward. She dove into a banked swoop, opening fire in the general direction of the anti-aircraft guns. She scanned the sky with her peripheral vision, searching desperately for Est. Hauteclere roared in her ears. A stream of hot metal splashing a path of shredded foliage through the forest.

She spied Est’s plane, now tailed by residual black smoke as she tried weaving back and forth, mimicking Minerva’s evasive maneuvers.

Minerva clenched her teeth, her head pounding and her gun deafening her. She could feel each pulse of gunfire rippling through her plane, the gun rattling with enough ferocity to shake the cockpit. She felt a sharp stab of pain and checked her leg. The bullet had exited cleanly, it seemed, but now she was bleeding from a hole on each side of her middle thigh. Red was pooling in the cockpit below her.

She let go of her gun and ripped her scarf from her neck. She frantically wrapped her leg, hands moving quickly to balance keeping herself aloft and tightening the scarf enough to stanch the flow of blood. Another blast of gunfire ripped through the air, nipping her rudder and narrowly avoiding cutting through the chassis.

She tried steadying herself, tried taking deep breaths.

Behind her, Catria and Palla had moved onto the defensive, following close behind Est and trying to draw gunfire away from her. Minerva looked up to see another trail of light cross between the planes, blasting holes in each girl’s wings.

_Fuckers._

Minerva’s saw red. She dove in a twisting spiral, the muzzle of her gun flashing in her eyes, her teeth bared. She finally spotted it – the anti-air craft installation.

It was a temporary setup, a clearing off a dirt road that housed two mobile guns – two grey quick-firing cannons pointed skywards. She saw it for just a second before passing overhead and plunging it back into the treeline.

She urged her engine forward, trying to regroup with the other Whitewings. Two of the three were trailing smoke – Catria had been hit and Est’s plane seemed to be sluggish, chugging through the air and lagging behind.

_No. No, no. No, no, no, no no nononono_

She felt the panic setting in. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She hadn’t even abandoned the original mission.

With some sense of relief, she at least took comfort in the fact that her brother would not know of her betrayal. At least Maria would be safe.

She exhaled and reached a hand up to wipe her goggles. She felt dizzy, no doubt a symptom of the blood loss and adrenaline flood. Another burst of gunfire danced across her wings, ripping through the metal frame. The engine stuttered and rumbled. Then it stalled.

Not good.

She felt her stomach drop as her altitude plummeted. She struggled against the yoke, tugging it back and trying to keep herself horizontal as she careened towards the ground. She looked up into the sky, squinting through her foggy goggles, trying to keep track of the other Whitewings. They were gone – at least, she couldn’t see them. She roared in frustration, nearly ripping the yoke out of the dashboard. She shut off the engine and tried to maintain a glide – though with that many holes singing in her wings, she doubted she could lose much speed.

The forest rushed up quickly and soon her vision was flooded with a murky green. She ripped off her goggles, letting the wind take them. She quickly returned the hand to the controls, trying desperately to wrest control of her plane.

She stared at the mangled nose of her plane – the engine belched smoke from several holes and the propeller lagged, slicing through the air with slow, sluggish motions. She braced herself.

 

-

 

Minerva knocked on the door. Her knuckles rapped against the wood once, then a second time. “Brother?” she asked softly.

There was no response from the chamber within.

It had been a long week. At the request of Gra’s commander, the Whitewings had been deployed to the front. Missions every day, sometimes twice a day. And to make matters worse, they had been forced to fly missions with the Dragoons, the main corps of Macedon’s air force. Minerva preferred to work with her unit only. And for the most part, Michalis assented. As long as they did as they were told, their operations weren’t interfered with.

The war had been growing worse, though. Once gas rationing went into effect, the air force was continually pushed to tighter and tighter flight times. Missions were run on razor-thin supply margins, and even being the king’s sister didn’t afford her much privilege in those respects. Their last mission had been a resounding success, no damage taken by any of her planes. Barring Est’s little snafu with her landing gear, but that was easily overlooked.

She adjusted her uniform, straightening her collar and checking her sleeve cuffs. She took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Michalis was fuming. His demeanor didn’t betray it, but his eyes did. Eyes that Minerva had seen so many times before. How they flashed with indignation, with an unquenchable fury.

“Sir.” She said quietly, surprised. He shouldn’t have been upset, he should have been ecstatic. An enemy munitions factory, obliterated. Instead, though, he appeared to be furious.

“Minerva.”

“I…I was told to give the mission report, brother.”

He glared. “What did you say?”

“I-I’m sorry, sir.” She bowed slightly, daring to approach the desk. “I meant no disrespect. General Harmein requested I report, sir.”

Michalis shook his head in disgust. “You think I need a report?” He stood up, pushing himself off the table with balled fists. “You think your failure isn’t already circulating through the upper ranks of the Aurelian army? Do you?” he spat the words.

“Failure…?” Minerva said softly, taken aback.

“Yes, _failure_ , dear sister. You and your precious little birds didn’t accomplish _anything_.”

“What?” Minerva asked, genuinely confused. “What are you talking about? We destroyed-”

“The factory,” Michalis said, tossing a grainy photograph onto the desk for her to see. It was an aerial depiction of the target they had destroyed. “It was a diversion. Empty, disused for years. It was a waste of time, fuel, and ammunition, and now the Aurelians are parading around, talking about how easy we are to fool.”

“We completed our mission. It was your intel that was bad.”

“What did you say to me?” he hissed.

“We did our jobs. We destroyed your target.”

He crossed the desk to stand in front of her. He glowered down at her, his face contorted into an expression of abhorrent disdain. “Congratulations. Your unit is the laughingstock of the entire Archanean League.”

“My unit is-“

He lashed out, his gloved hand slashing across her face with a startling amount of force. The blow staggered Minerva, who clutched her cheek in pain and stumbled back. “Your unit is one wrong step away from being disbanded.”

“Brother, I-“ she gasped, reaching out a hand to steady herself on his desk.

He hit her again, this time sending her sprawling to the floor. She tasted copper.

“This is unacceptable!” he shouted, striking out with a heavy boot.

Minerva coughed, clutching her stomach. “I-I didn’t-“ her pitiful apology was interrupted by another impact against her abdomen.

“You’re getting blood on my carpet,” he said, returning to his seat. “Now go, while I decide what to do with you and your pitiful little friends.”

 

-

 

Minerva opened her eyes slowly, the motion breaking through a crust of dried blood that started somewhere on her forehead and terminated halfway down her cheek. She winced as she tried to sit up, her entire body aching.

She felt weak and nauseous.

The wreckage of her plane didn’t inspire great confidence. The propeller was almost motionless, drifting in lazy circles from the breeze, attached at an off-kilter angle to a nose cone that was almost entirely smashed in. Thick black smoke was rising in a thin but steady stream from the dented engine mount. Hauteclere had survived the crash, a fact which drew a hollow laugh from Minerva. She slapped the side of her gun. Of course.

Instinctively, she checked it. Ammo belts, safety, rigging, barrel integrity. All seemed good to go. She could fire it, if needed.

She surveyed the rest of the damage. One wing was intact, save for a smattering of bullet holes through the upper wing and the struts, several of which had snapped. The other wing was…gone. She frowned and swiveled her head, checking the forest behind her. The swiveling motion sent pain sparking down her spine and she let out a sharp gasp.

Oh, the wing wasn’t gone after all.

Behind the plan lay her trail of wreckage, scattered bits of metal and broken fuselage littering a path carved down through the trees. In her wake were split tree branches and shredded foliage.

She groaned, leaning back in her seat. The dented cockpit was caved in around her legs. The glass instruments along the dashboard had shattered and had deposited a sharp payload of broken crystal around her like a fine dusting of snow. She tapped the fuel gauge. Empty, which explained the smell of gasoline in the air.

All things considered, she thought, reaching down and grasping her sidearm, not a great situation. Trapped, until she could push the top of the cockpit off her. Which, considering her blood loss and possibly broken limbs, wasn’t likely. Stuck in her wrecked plane, a plane that was spilling gasoline around her. That was also smoking.

She unclipped her pistol from its holster and brought it to her chest before setting it on the dashboard next to Hauteclere.

Maybe the gas would catch fire, she thought bitterly. Solve this whole damn problem before it starts.

She tried to take stock of her injuries. The bullet wound in the leg was the obvious one, though the pain of it was matched by the pervasive aching throughout her entire body. Beyond that, her legs seemed okay. She could wiggle them with minimal pain, so they probably weren’t broken. Ribs were a different story, she assumed.

She could hear shouting in the distance, harsh calls from voices muffled by the thick foliage.

Great. Great. This is good. She leaned forward as much as she could, ignoring the pain and checking to see if she could dismount her machine gun. She had a toolkit in the back of her cockpit, not that she could reach it.

She swiveled the gun towards the general direction of the voices. She only had about 180 degrees of rotation anyway, and the voices were coming from her side, giving her about ninety total degrees of movement to aim. Good thing she had her pistol.

The voices grew louder.

For a second, she considered tasting the cold, oiled steel of her pistol. Quick, painless, probably preferable to being burned alive if the wreck caught fire. Certainly preferable to capture.

Capture meant execution. It meant shame to her family, a morale boost to the enemy. The Red Dragoon of Macedon, finally snuffed out. Above all other outcomes, capture was unacceptable.

She unlatched the safety of her machine gun and wrapped her hand around the grip, lightly resting her finger on the trigger. She stared into the woods, waiting with bated breath. The trees seemed omonious, bending in vague and menacing shapes around her, the fine details obscured by dancing leaves and beams of sunlight. The voices continued to grow into frantic shouts and issued orders. They must have followed her smoke trail. She grimaced.

She held her breath.

-

 

Palla climbed out of her cockpit without waiting for the propeller to finish spinning. She checked her sidearm as she slid onto the tamped dry grass of the meadow. So much for the plan, she thought wryly.

Catria’s plane was still rolling through the field, coming to a stop a few hundred paces from Palla’s. They came to rest in the meadow that had been their designated landing zone. It was a dry field, all yellow grass and scattered rocks ringed in the thick forest so typical of the countryside. Palla had been the first to land, followed by Catria. Est followed suit, her plane circling, waiting for a clear opportunity to level out onto the uneven ground.

Palla jogged towards her middle sister’s idling plane, waving. “Stay here and help Est with repairs. I’m going to check on the commander.” She looked off in the direction from which they had come, noting the pillar of black smoke rising from the trees.

Catria lifted herself out of her cockpit angrily. “What? No, we’re coming with you!”

“I said stay here, Catria! It’s dangerous!”

“Yeah, that’s why we’re coming.” Catria straddled the cockpit of her plane and began rummaging around for something.

“I’m going. Wait for Est to land.”

Catria withdrew something from her cockpit. A long, slender piece of wood and metal. She tossed it to Palla, who caught it with surprise.

“A precaution I took,” Catria explained, drawing a second rifle from her plane and hopping down to the ground. She ripped her goggles off her face and tossed them into the cockpit.

“Catria…” Palla looked over the gun. Two semi-automatic carbines, standard Macedon issue. She frowned. “Where did you get these?”

“From the armory before we left,” Catria explained, checking her sidearm and looking over her rifle. “I had a feeling those dinky little pistols wouldn’t be enough if we planned on deserting.”

“Did you bring ammunition?”

Catria tilted her head and smiled. “Oh, Palla. Did I bring ammunition? Of course I did.” She patted the side of her plane. “Six ten-round magazines each. Total of 240 shots between the four of us.”

Palla nodded. “Nice work, Catria.”

As if on cue, they could hear gunshots in the distance. Reports of rifle blasts interspersed with the louder, steady roar of a machine gun. The shots broke the stillness of the morning and the sisters made eye contact.

“Shit,” Palla muttered, tightening her grip on her rifle stock. “Stay here. When Est lands, start fixing up the planes. Got it?” She began to jog off before Catria grabbed her arm.

“Wait, Palla-“

Palla shook her off and continued towards the forest’s edge, rifle in hand.

 

-

 

Minerva rotated Hauteclere back and forth, sweeping the trees in a narrow arc. She pulsed bullets at regular intervals, careful to not overheat it with continuous fire. It was air-cooled, meaning it would heat up quickly without the constant stream of cold air it received when firing. A rifle blast pinged off the metal chassis. Another punched a hole in the one remaining wing.

If nothing else, she was glad that she had intimidation on her side. Suppressing fire was a hell of an asset, though she still didn’t know their numbers. She could occasionally see glimpses of uniforms through the trees, the standard olive green of the Archanean infantry. A shot pierced the side of the cockpit and lodged in the dashboard.

A rustling sound shifted in the bushes behind her. She snatched up her pistol and fired off two shots in quick succession, pleased that it stopped the rustling.

With each stream of machinegun fire, the plane threatened to tear itself apart. It was scarcely designed to handle the gun in the first place, but now, crumpled into debris, it was a miracle the thing was holding together at all. Holding the trigger down sent ripples of vibration through the fuselage.

She eyed the dwindling ammunition belt nervously as it was sucked into the gun, vacuumed up as if into the mouth of a hungry beast.

Two shots fired with the pistol, so six left. Maybe another minute of machine fire. She clenched her teeth. Empty shells ejected from the smoking gun, spilling down the cockpit and piling around her legs.

“Commander!”

Minerva twisted her neck to see Palla stumbling out of the brush. She dashed forward and slid into position behind the wreck, taking cover behind the burnt-out body of the plane. She pressed her back against the twisted fuselage, out of breath.

“Palla?” Minerva shouted in surprise over her gun’s roar.

“Here to help, Commander!” Palla gasped out, exhausted from her sprint. She cautiously poked her head out, peering into the woods. A shot bounced off the rudder with a ping and she ducked back down.

“You’ll get yourself killed!” Minerva shouted over the thunder of her gun. “Get out of here!”

Palla shook her head and lunged up, resting her arms on the chassis to steady her aim. She squeezed off three shots, adjusting her aim after each. What had Catria said? Ten-shot magazines? She ducked back down.

“No such luck, Commander!”

Minerva growled and picked up her sidearm, firing off another shot into the woods. “That was an order, soldier!”

Palla popped up again to fire again before ducking down.

A bullet pierced the plane beside her and grazed her arm, ripping her sleeve and drawing a thin line of blood. She took a deep breath.

 Minerva ceased firing Hauteclere, letting the barrel cool as smoke poured out of it. She inhaled the pungent fumes and hacked wildly. The spasms made her ribs hurt even more.

In the absence of the gunfire, the woods suddenly felt still. Frighteningly still. She peered over the nosecone into the woods, checking between the trees. Nothing. No sound, no movement save the settling of debris and shredded foliage. She exhaled.

As she did, a bullet passed through the dashboard and lodged itself in her shoulder. She cried out in pain and scrabbled at the wound with both hands. Palla retaliated immediately, leaping up and firing back three times.

“Let us go, you morons!” she shouted angrily. “We aren’t with Macedon!”

The response was a volley of gunshots.

“Minerva, can you walk?” Palla asked, scooting along the wreckage and trying to approach the cockpit.

“No,” Minerva snapped hoarsely, still pressing a hand against her bleeding shoulder. She tried to lean back against her worn leather seat, attempting in vain to shrink behind the console for cover. “I’m stuck.”

“What?” Palla looked up at her from her seated position at the foot of the fuselage. “Stuck?”

“The…cockpit bent around my legs,” Minerva gasped. “I can’t move.”

“Shit,” Palla rolled her head back and forth, scanning the woods. She spied a patch of rustling and raised her rifle. Two bright heads of hair staggered out of the underbrush, prompting Palla to lower her gun.

“Est? Catria? What the hell are you doing here?!”  Palla snapped. “I said to stay with the planes!”

Catria stood tall, squeezing off covering fire as Est dashed to the wreckage.

“We’re here to help!” Est said brightly. She held her rifle to her chest eagerly in a way that made Palla nervous.

Catria crouch-walked up to them, careful to keep her head below the height of the plane. “Est and I will provide cover fire. Palla, see if you can pry the dented metal loose.”

Palla nodded. “Right.”

In synchronized motions, Est and Catria swiveled around on either side of Palla and rested their guns on the plane before firing shots into the woods. They alternated, one then the other, a perfect recreation of the coordination they practiced so often at the firing range. Palla hastily climbed up to the cockpit and wrapped her fingers around the bent metal.

“It’s no use,” Minerva said, her vision starting to blur. “It’s…too…”

Palla gritted her teeth and pulled with all her might.

“P-Palla,” Minerva gasped. Blood dripped from the corner of her mouth. “Go!”

With renewed fury, Palla yanked the bent metal, heedless of the scattered broken glass. “You piece of junk,” she muttered.

A bullet pierced the propeller, sending it into a lazy spin. Palla pressed her boots against the warped metal and stood to her full height. She straddled the cockpit, covering Minerva while firing off the rest of her magazine. “Come on, you fuckers!” she shouted angrily. She pulled the trigger a final time and was rewarded with a click. Furious, she swung the rifle around and began to rain blows against the cockpit with the stock. “Piece of shit!” she said through clenched teeth.

Minerva was fading quickly, her head lolling and her hand drooping to her side. Without pressure to stop the blood, her shoulder quickly grew soaked in blood. Her hair was drenched in sweat, the moisture mingling with the dried blood and grease smeared across her forehead.

With a final stroke, Palla smashed the butt of her gun through the metal, breaking the dented metal panel and cracking the cockpit open. She lunged down and grasped her commander’s arm, trying to pull her free. As she struggled to pry her from the wreckage, Catria and Est continued to provide covering fire, tossing magazines back and forth between them. When a rifle silenced, they ejected the empty magazines into the air, and reloaded before they hit the ground.

Palla grunted with the effort of lifting Minerva and finally settled on rolling her almost-still form off the side of the plane. She landed in the dirt between Est and Catria with a solid thump, groaning.

“Come on, Commander,” Palla said, sliding down the ruined cockpit and landing among her comrades. “We need to get out of here.”

She slid an arm around her and lifted Minerva up, supporting her while trying to crawl out of the clearing formed by the wreckage. “Come on,” she said again, more for herself than anything else. “We can do this.”

Est and Catria continued to provide cover as Palla and Minerva staggered into the woods.

Catria turned to her sister, taking her attention off the woods for just a second. “Go. I’ll cover you, then follow.”

“Are you sure?” Est asked.

Catria nodded, dropping an empty magazine to the ground and fishing another from her jacket. “Go!”

Est hurried off behind Palla and Minerva.

Catria leaned against the wreck, breathing heavily. She reached up and fixed her white headband, using it to mop up the sweat that was dripping into her eyes. She blinked rapidly, trying to keep grease from getting past her eyelashes. Trying to ignore the shots whistling overhead, she scanned her surroundings. She spied what she was looking for.

A puddle of greasy mud. She grinned, drawing her sidearm and firing. Her shot ricocheted off a panel of metal in a shower of sparks. The sparks hit the pooled gasoline and ignited instantly, engulfing the wreck in flames just as she staggered away, hoping her distraction would be sufficient cover. As she stumbled off into the woods, she turned and stole one last glimpse at the burning ruins of Minerva’s plane. And she read, for a split second before it was engulfed in a fireball, the word _Hauteclere_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smash cut to chapter title card: Minerva Gets the Shit Beaten Out of Her 
> 
> Sorry for the wait on this one! I still have yet to learn my lesson about concurrent projects, but hopefully I can keep updates coming at a semi-regular pace while I'm trying to finish up some other fics! (Also I promise this won't just be continuous gunfights for the entire fic despite this chapter turning into one whoops)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOF SORRY THIS ONE TOOK SO LONG  
> I have so many ongoing projects I'm dying
> 
> you can thank @detectiveroboryan for me actually setting and hitting a deadline for this update

Palla tasted blood.

She wasn’t entirely sure if it was hers, which was concerning. She frowned. Now that she thought about it, she was absolutely certain it was not hers. Which was gross, sure, but probably better than the alternative. She stumbled, her boot catching on a tangled root. _Shit._

She managed to right herself. From somewhere above her, Minerva groaned.

“S-sorry, commander!” Palla apologized, straightening her back and tightening her grip on Minerva’s legs. She had given up on helping Minerva limp through the woods after maybe a quarter mile and had instead settled for carrying her on her back. Minerva groaned again in response.

“How are we looking, Catria?” Palla said, louder. Her peripheral vision was severely limited by the woman she was carrying.

“Clear!” Catria said, jogging to her side. A rifle was slung around her shoulders, though Catria kept it in the ready position despite the confidence of her words.

Palla nodded. “Right, let’s take a break and regroup.”

They arrived in a clearing of forest created by a couple fallen trees interspersed with clumps of dense bushes. Palla made her way to an empty space, a plot of dirt and roots between two large trees. She did her best to gently set Minerva down, though in practice the results were less than ideal. Minerva slumped over, flopping to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Palla winced.

Catria came to a halt next to them, kneeling at Minerva’s prone form, looking over her injuries. Est came third, skidding out of the forest at top speed, nearly colliding with Palla, who was untying her white headband.

Palla touched her forehead. Blood had dried in a trail starting in her hair and ending somewhere around her chin. As she turned to examine her commander, she realized where it had come from.

Minerva’s mouth was open, blood dripping down her chin in thick crimson splotches, pooling on her scarf and jacket and spilling down into the dirt.

“Shit,” Palla swore, kneeling across from Catria. She looked up, eyes dark and serious. “How are we looking?”

Catria ground her teeth nervously. She had a bad habit of doing so when she was focusing, a habit that persisted no many how many times Palla scolded her for it, insisting that one day she’d break her damn teeth. She shook her head. “Not good.”

At least three bullet wounds – leg, shoulder, and Minerva’s left side. Her nose was broken and blood was crusting on her upper lip. A black eye had formed on her left cheek, merging with large bruise on her forehead. Her breathing was ragged and sporadically interrupted by a lurching cough that splattered blood on Palla’s pantlegs.

Palla felt her heart sink. She clenched her hands, clutching fistfuls of Minerva’s torn and bloody jacket. “Commander,” she said breathlessly. She looked at Catria. “S-she’ll be okay, right?”

Catria pursed her lips.

Behind them, Est was taking stock of their gear. She checked the rifles, reloaded each, and sorted out all the half-empty magazines. Her hands worked quickly, a nimble blaze over the mess of oiled wood and warm metal and clicking latches.

“Est,” Palla said, turning to her.

Est continued her work, emptying out the half-spent magazines and prying open others to refill them, merging their ammunition for maximum efficiency.

“Est,” Palla said, louder.

Est shook her head and kept working.

“Est!” Palla reached out and clasped her sister’s shoulder.

Est dropped a magazine she was working on and it clattered to the dirt. Palla could see that her hands, no longer occupied, were shaking. She turned, her face flushed and her eyes wild.

“Est, are you okay?” Palla asked squeezing her shoulder. Est nodded, though she had yet to still her trembling hands.

“Est, listen to me,” Palla said, shifting to kneel at her sister’s side. “Listen, Est. I need you to go to the planes and get whatever first aid supplies we have, okay? Can you do that?”

Est nodded, her gaze wandering to the dirt between the two of them.

“Est,” Palla said seriously, putting a hand on each of Est’s shoulders. “Est, look at me. I need you to do this, okay? The commander needs you to do this.” Est nodded and swallowed heavily.

“Okay?” Palla said, standing. She helped Est to her feet. She pulled Est into a tight embrace before pushing her lightly away. “Okay? Go! We’ll take care of Min-“ she stopped herself. “We’ll take care of the commander. Come back as fast as you can, okay?”

Palla sat down heavily in the dirt, watching Est dart off into the trees. She frowned and turned her attention to herself, checking for wounds.

“That was her first time, you know,” Catria said softly as she tried bandaging Minerva’s wounds with strips of cloth torn from her own scarf.

Palla nodded, untying her boots.

“She did well.”

Palla nodded again. She took off her left boot and dumped out the gravel and dirt that had been accumulating.

“Didn’t mess up any of the maneuvers we practiced in training.”

Palla put her boots back one.

“Palla, please say something.”

Palla looked up. Catria was hunched over Minerva’s prone, crumpled form, She was pressing a section of torn scarf against Minerva’s shoulder, the pressure stifling the flow of blood. Catria looked, for lack of a better term, like shit. She was smudged with grease and dirt, and all down her front was splatters of Minerva’s blood. Catria stared at Palla, her eyes weak and pleading.

Palla felt her chest sink.

This was a disaster. An unmitigated disaster, no two ways about it. Est had never even been in ground combat before. Catria hadn’t yet completed her first aid training. And Palla, for all her strength and wisdom, was at least partly responsible for their situation. Even if Minerva hadn’t been gravely injured, they were still down one plane. Even if they had four planes, they were still deep in enemy territory. It was only a matter of time before the Archanean forces tracked their planes and weeded them out. Even now, it was likely only a matter of time before they were found.

Palla froze.

They had landed in a clearing. The Archaneans knew they had arrived by plane, so they would be looking for a place they could have used as a makeshift landing strip. And they knew the territory.

_Est._

Palla and Catria made eye contact, each arriving to the same heart-stopping conclusion.

Catria bolted to her feet and grabbed one of the rifles from their stockpile of gear. “Stay here,” she commanded Palla. “Look after the commander. I’ll get Est.” Palla scrambled across to the commander and took over Catria’s position as nurse. She pressed the bloody fabric tight against Minerva’s body and watched for a second time as her sister dashed into the forest.

It was quiet. The only sounds were the sounds of the forest, the chirping of birds and the rusting of leaves in the breeze. The air felt cool and smelled like rain, though the sky above the canopy of trees overhead still looked bright and cloudless. Palla shifted uncomfortably. She checked her sidearm and drew it from its holster. She unlatched the safety. Sweat beaded along her brow. Beneath her delicate touch, Minerva’s chest rose and fell in weak starts.

 

-

 

Maria sat on the edge of her bed. Her small face was fixed in a stern frown. She was not a dumb girl, not by any stretch of the imagination. She scanned the room.

It was a sparsely decorated bedroom, a red carpet trimmed with gold spread across the stone floor, a thick wooden desk pushed against one corner. A wardrobe was against the opposite wall, its dark mahogany doors swung open to reveal nothing inside. And there was the bed, a small twin bed piled high with expensive linens and soft, feather-filled pillows. Maria sighed.

Gilding it made it no less of a cage.

It had been Michalis’ doing, of course. At first, she had assumed it was the bad guys. Archanea or Altea or one of those other A-countries, the ones fighting the war. Her next guess was that it was Macedonians – rebels opposed to the war, political dissidents. She had even briefly suspected just plain old criminals – perhaps in the shambles of the economy, they thought ransoming the king’s sister would be lucrative. Her captors had provided little clues. She remembered being manhandled, roughly thrown into the back of an automobile, and from there a bag was tied over her head. Then blackness.

Rumbling, motion, movement. She was small, light enough to be carried rather than pushed around, but she was pushed around regardless. By the time she reached her final destination, she was bruised, battered, hungry, and exhausted. She had been allowed no sleep save the dozing off she managed to do in what she assumed was the backs of trucks or cars. Perhaps a train. When the bag was taken off her head, she was here, in this room.

There was one window, a broad glass plate over the desk that looked out across the grounds of the castle. Because that’s what it was, in the end. A high tower in some castle in some land Maria could not identify. The high spires of stone were adorned with the red and black flags of Dolhr. Far in the distance, she could see the mountains – the very same mountains that she assumed marked the natural border separating Dolhr and Macedon.

She had been confused. Dolhr was Macedon’s ally, in theory. Michalis had assured her that they would be. They needed to be – the combined military might of the two would be unbreakable, as Michalis told it.

Evidently the alliance was not quite as stable as Maria had been led to believe. What clued her in was the appearance of her brother, arriving in her room after days of isolation, her only contact meager rations the guards distributed to her.

Seeing him had nearly given her a heart attack.

She had leapt up from the desk and bolted across the room, throwing herself into her brother’s arms. Now, at last, she would be free – if nothing else, he would explain to her what was going on.

Maria got up from the bed and crossed to the window, staring out. It was a grey day, cloudy and drizzly, and she watched rivulets of rain trickle down the thick glass. Beyond the glass, beyond the water, she watched the wet flags flapping in the breeze.

She was a hostage, she realized. Not for some petty aim like ransom, not taken captive by Macedon’s enemies, but a pawn in Michalis’ vying for power.

“Maria, you must understand,” he had said. “This is for the good of our people.”

Maria had cried.

Now, as she stared out the window, she felt the despair sinking back into her chest. His voice echoed in her head.

“If we do not secure this alliance with Dolhr, we may lose the western front. Do you understand?”

Maria had shrugged.

“Maria, you want to protect our people, do you not? You want to protect Minerva?”

All it had taken was the mention of her sister to make Maria agree. And so she was here, locked in a tower, far from home, a prisoner of Michalis’ design. She would remain a prisoner for as long as necessary. Minerva and her Whitewings would fly missions for Dolhr, and in return Macedon would receive supplies – troops, ammunition, planes, trucks, gear. More than that, Macedon would receive food. Dolhr would send aid to their neighbors to the south.

Maria reached out and touched the window pane. It hurt, this imprisonment, but she realized this was the burden she needed to bear. Everyone else was struggling, fighting, working so hard. Macedon was suffering. Minerva was suffering. Michalis was suffering. What right did she have to go to school and play with her friends, when so much was at stake? If this was one thing she could do, she must do it. She stared out at the grey skies, wondering what Minerva was doing.

Was she out there, in that far-off sky? Somewhere bluer, Maria hoped. The wind in her hair, her companions at her back. For Minerva, her cage and her freedom were one in the same. For Maria, her cage was the freedom of Macedon. She smiled. For that, she would gladly endure this pain.

 

-

 

Est bent over the side of the plane, sifting through the cockpit for supplies. Each plane came equipped with first aid kits, but they were, in all honesty, a bit of a joke among the pilots. She pulled out the cloth kit and quickly poked through its contents, categorizing it in her mind. She kept meticulous count, anything to keep her mind off her likely-dying commander. Tourniquet, adhesive plaster, safety pins, iodine, gauze, bandages, two syringes of morphine. Per kit. She nodded. Three kits. Okay. She leapt down from the plane and jogged to the next one, Catria’s.

The sky was darkening overhead, a bank of thick storm clouds rumbling in the distance. The wind was picking up, rustling the trees and cutting through the field of grass, lazily spinning the propellers of the three parked planes.

In addition to the standard first aid kit, Catria had also stuck a half-emptied pack of cigarettes into the gap between her seat and the cockpit’s frame. Est grabbed those too.

As she rifled through Palla’s plane, a shout shattered her laser-focused concentration. She looked up to see her sister sprinting across the field, rifle in hand. Catria’s stark blue hair flapped wildly in the wind as she sprinted, waving her hands.

Est, startled, dropped her armful of medical supplies to the ground, scattering them in the grass around the plane’s landing gear. She fell out of the cockpit and landed with a heavy “oof!” on her backside.

“Est!” Catria cried, running to her side. “Sorry, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Est said, picking herself up. “Shit, I dropped all my stuff!”

“It’s okay,” Catria said, kneeling in the grass. “I’ll help you. We need to get moving, though.”

“What?” Est asked, scrabbling around, trying to pick up what she had dropped. “What’s happening? Is the commander okay?”

“I don’t know,” Catria admitted, helping Est scoop the contents of the kits back into their cloth containers. She picked up her half-empty pack of cigarettes and regarded it with something resembling disdain that it was not full. She tucked it into her jacket pocket. “We aren’t out of the woods yet, though.”

Est looked from her sister to the treeline and opened her mouth.

“If you say it, I’ll smack you,” Catria said, standing up and pulling Est to her feet. “Now come on, the Arcs are probably on their way as we speak.”

By the time they reached Minerva and Palla, the rain had begun. Fat droplets of water splashed down between the trees, turning the forest floor into a mire of brown mud and plastering their hair to their heads.

Palla had lifted her jacket above her head and leaned over Minerva, doing her best to keep them both out of the rain.

A crackle of thunder split the sky.

“Est! Catria!” Palla said, looking up from underneath her makeshift canopy. “Did you get the supplies?”

Catria nodded. Digging through the kits was hard enough without being blinded by rain, and as she worked the bandages and gauze were quickly soaked with rainwater. Heedless, Catria plowed forward, doing her best to remember her first aid training. She treated Minerva’s bullet wounds first, rinsing them with iodine, cleaning and dressing the wounds. Palla’s canopy proved invaluable, letting her work without too much rain seeping into the process.

As she dressed Minerva’s leg, the commander let out a harsh moan punctuated by a cough.

Rain continued to pour down from the canopy of trees above them. Lightning flashed, followed by another roar of thunder. The rain intensified, soaking through Palla’s jacket at last and dripping down onto her in a weak stream.

Palla frowned. “Catria, did you get the morphine?”

Catria nodded, not looking up from Minerva’s leg. “I did, but I haven’t really received traini-“ Before she could finish speaking, Palla withdrew a syringe.

“Palla, wait!” Catria protested as her sister tugged down Minerva’s torn jacket sleeve and jabbed the needle into their commander’s bicep.

Catria let go of Minerva’s leg and grabbed Palla’s arm. “You idiot!” she shouted, her voice almost drowned out by the rain. She wiped her wet bangs out of her eyes. “You could kill her!”

“She’s in pain!”

“We all are! That doesn’t mean you can-“ Catria slipped as she leaned forward, tumbling into the mud.

“Catria!” Palla let the canopy drop, the jacket becoming a wet blanket draped over Minerva’s form as she checked her sister.

“I’m fine!” Catria protested, pushing herself to her knees. “I’m-“ thunder interrupted her protests. Followed by another crackle.

Palla gulped. She made eye contact with Catria. A third blast of noise confirmed it. Not thunder, but bullets.

“They found the planes,” Palla said reassuringly. “It’s fine. They don’t know where we are, and the rain will cover our tracks.”

Est sat curled up with her back to a tree, heedless of the rain, her arms tight around her legs. As Palla finished dressing Minerva’s wounds, Catria sat by Est’s side. Another round of rifle reports sounded, cutting through the rain. The sound made Est wince.

“Are you okay, Est?” Catria asked softly, leaning close so Est could hear over the rain. Est nodded, though her eyes were clamped shut. 

“You did really well,” Catria said, trying to think of encouragement. This wasn’t exactly her forte. “You…we really worked as part of a team. We’re going to be okay.”

Est nodded again.

Catria playfully patted her shoulder. “It’s going to be alright. I promise.” She took off her jacket and held it up over the two of them, though they were already soaked to the bone at this point. Est leaned against her, finding some comfort in the touch even if they were both chilled and dripping wet.

Palla knelt over Minerva’s body, wiping blood from her face. As she did, she let her fingers linger on Minerva’s cheek.

“Commander,” she said, her voice hoarse from all the shouting. She suddenly felt tired. Everything felt like too much. Her clothes, sopping wet, seemed to be pulling her towards the muddy ground. Her legs ached, her arms ached, her back ached. Her fingers felt stiff, having spent the better part of the day curled around the ergonomic metal of a gun trigger. She wanted to collapse on top of Minerva, to melt into her like the rain and the blood and the mud.

She slouched over, falling back heavily on her palms and letting the rain pour over her. There was no point in trying to avoid it, anyway. They were lost, far from home, under a canopy of trees, soaked, wounded, exhausted, hungry. Their planes were likely being shot to pieces, being dismantled even as they sat and nursed their wounds in the forest. An unmitigated disaster indeed. She looked at their pitiful band.

Est and Catria were slumped against a tree, Est dozing against Catria, who was holding her jacket aloft. Minerva was frighteningly motionless, still as the grave in the mud. And her, Palla, somehow responsible for all of them – responsible for keeping them alive. She looked up, blinking her wet green bangs from her eyes. The canopy of leaves overhead shook, the leaves rattling under the force of the rain. Beyond that, the stormclouds loomed dark and grey above. The sky seemed so very far away.

 

-

 

Michalis was cross. Of course he was. He was always cross, always in a foul mood about this, that, or some other thing. It was a war, after all. There were no good moods, only victories. And this war seemingly had no victories, only the interminable march of supplies to the front. Michalis was the king, and a soldier in his own right. But as he scowled, poring over paperwork, he reflected on whether or not he would be serving his country better from his own aircraft. Leave the supply distribution to someone else.

But he was king, and thus, the paperwork. And thus, he was cross.

A knock sounded at his door. He looked up from his desk.

Another knock.

“Sir,” came the muffled voice. “An urgent report from the front, sir.”

“Come in,” Michalis said, secretly relieved to have an interruption to the drudgery of paperwork.

A man stumbled in, his uniform unkempt and messy, is hat nearly falling off his head of wiry black hair. In his hand he held an envelope, the paper dirty and off-white. From the front indeed.

“Come in,” Michalis repeated. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk. “Please, sit.”

The man bowed and declined to sit. He removed his hat and held it to his side as he thrust the envelope forward as he bowed again. “A report, sir!”

Michalis snatched the envelope from his hands and tore it open. His brow furrowed as he quickly read through the message. His gaze lingered on the signature at the end of the form. He looked up. “General Orridyon penned this report?”

“Yes, milord!” the man bowed again. “He said it was a most urgent matter, sir!”

Michalis nodded, letting the letter fall from his hands to the desk. He had not thought his mood would get worse, and yet.

“Did you see them for yourself?”

The man nodded. “Yessir. Altean uniforms, sir.”

“And their commander?”

“I didn’t see him m’self, sir,” the man said nervously. He fidgeted with his hat. “But the men have been speaking, sir.”

“Oh?” Michalis lifted an eyebrow.

“They say it’s, er…” The man’s gaze shifted uneasily. “They say it’s Marth, sir.”

Michalis scowled. “Impossible. Marth was killed when the Altean castle fell.”

“It’s just what the men are saying, sir.”

Michalis stared at the paper on his desk. If the report were true, it would mean the Altean army was back, and bolstering the strength of their enemies. The lines were being drawn more clearly. Altea, Archanea, Aurelis, Talys. Gra, Grust, Macedon, Dolhr. Khadein, yet to take a side. But the would need to, and soon. Michalis knit his brow, his mind churning quickly. Now, more than ever, Macedon’s alliance with Dolhr was vital.

He pursed his lips. “Tell General Harmein that when she returns, my sister and her squadron are to depart immediately for the Aurelian Front. I want the Alteans crushed, do you hear me?”

The soldier nodded. “Of course, sir!”

“Now go, before I have you court-martialed for wasting my time,” Michalis snapped.

The Whitewings would return from their mission by the following morning. Nyna would be dead. The Archanean and Aurelian alliance would be shattered, and the enemy would lose morale. The arrival of Altean troops to the front was a surprise, but not an unmanageable one.

Marth, though. That was indeed a surprise.

The son of Cornelius, the late Altean king. His father had been a skilled tactician, before Dolhr had betrayed him and had him killed. His entire platoon, wiped from the face of the Earth, as the Dolhrian high command told it. There should have been nothing left of Altea. And yet…

Doubt lingered in Michalis’ heart.

No. Marth was but a boy. If he were alive, if he _were_ leading the tattered remnants of the Altean army, he would be swiftly crushed. He could not have the experience nor the numbers necessary to counter the combined might of Macedon and its many allies.

He would stand no chance against the Red Dragoon of Macedon. She was a fool, but she was good at what she did, and even Michalis could not deny that.

The pieces would fall into place. Victory will be swift. Victory is certain. Michalis stared at the paper on his desk.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Macedon - 1912
> 
> Days of light and laughter, before the war.

“What are you so dressed up for?” Palla asked, looking up from her book. Rather than her standard military fatigues, Catria had opted for something a little classier – a high-waisted evening gown and a pair of wedge heels. She was checking her appearance in the mirror, fluffing the edges of her bright hair.

Palla rotated on her bunk to a sitting position. “Catria, did you get a haircut?”

“N-no,” Catria lied, flicking out the lower edge of her brand-new bob cut.

Palla got up from her bunk and paced across the room. Their accommodations were small, as necessitated by life on the base. At least their recent promotion had saved them the trouble of living out of the common barracks, and instead the three sisters this shared room – a squat bunkroom tucked into the far corner of the training fields. A few officers had their quarters here as well, but the real benefit was its close proximity to the commissary. Which is no doubt where Catria had acquired the dark lipstick she was applying.

“Liar,” Palla playfully batted her arm as she walked by. “What’s going on? You’ve never been one to care about your appearance.”

“I told you five times,” Catria smacked her lips in the mirror, checking her lipstick’s application. “Caeda and I are going to the fair.”

“Oh, right.” Palla quietly scolded herself for forgetting.

“Why don’t you come along?” Catria suggested.

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Palla replied. She replaced her book on their shared bookshelf and began to sift through their modest cupboard, looking for a snack. Unlike her now-somewhat-dolled-up sister, Palla was still wearing her fatigues, no doubt still dressed from drills in the morning. She frowned, acutely aware of the differences in their appearance. She surreptitiously sniffed the armpit of her uniform. She hadn’t even showered.

“Oh, come, now,” Catria scolded her. “Don’t tell me you’re going to spend your whole leave cooped up in here with a book.”

“Funny, coming from you,” Palla smirked.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re…you know,” Palla floundered a bit. “So…studious.”

“What do you think?” Catria asked, holding up a large feathered hat. “Too much?”

“Are you using the brim as an umbrella?”

Blushing, Catria put it back. “Point taken.”

“I didn’t even realize the fair was in town,” Palla said.

Catria sighed. “I told you five times,” she repeated. “Palla, you really need to listen more.”

“I listen plenty,” Palla protested. “It’s just…”

“It’s what?” Catria snapped. “Things I say just go in one ear and right out the other with you. Do you even know where Est is right now?”

Palla winced. It was true she had been so focused on training that she might have been neglecting her sisters…a little bit. “Um…”

“You DON’T know!” Catria said, harshness creeping into her voice. “You’re working so hard, but you’re forgetting about us!”

“I’m sorry,” Palla said softly. “I…” she tried to come up with the right words. It was true, and she knew it. She had been neglecting her family. She had been so immersed in everything – in firing drills, in getting stronger, in learning airplane maintenance, in the discipline and the rote monotony of military life. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “You’re…you’re right. I haven’t been keeping my promise.”

Catria nodded, her face softening a bit. She sat next to her elder sister and gently patted her leg. “It’s okay. I know it’s hard, but…you need to relax a bit before the stress kills you. Then what would Est and I do?”

Palla smiled kindly. “Okay, okay. Message received.”

“So you’ll come with us?” Catria asked again. “To the fair, I mean. Military ID gets you a free funnel cake, you know.”

Palla shook her head again. “I don’t want to impose. I’d feel like a third wheel.”

“Just bring a date!”

Palla burst out laughing. “A date?” she asked. “Who would I even _ask_?”

“Oh, a certain someone…” Catria said playfully. She got up and began digging through their dresser, pulling out supplies to slip into her handbag.

“Oh?” Palla asked, taking the bait.

“Don’t think I don’t see you ogling the captain every morning.”

“Captain Minerva?!” Palla laughed again. “Do you hear yourself?!”

“Oh, come off it,” Catria said, slipping a compact into her purse, followed by her lipstick. “I saw you eating with her in the mess the other day.”

“She’s my captain! Is it strange I’d want a strong relationship with her?”

“Oho?” Catria teased. “Strong relationship?”

Palla rolled her eyes. “Trust me, Catria. If I were to ask someone to come to the fair, it would NOT be Captain Minerva.”

“Oh,” Catria said. She looked somewhat guilty.

“Oh?” Palla repeated back. “I’ll just go and hang out with Est. Where is she, by the way?”

“Uh…” Catria nervously backed towards the door. “I…uh…I need to go do something real quick. I’ll-“ she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

“It’s us!” Est’s voice slipped through the cracks. “You two ready?”

_Us?_ Palla mouthed silently at Catria, whose face was a mask of blushing scarlet.

“Uh…maybe…give us a mi-“ before Catria could stammer an excuse, Est barreled through the door, dressed in a maybe overly-casual walking suit and an askew cloche hat over her messy pink hair. Behind her was – Palla froze.

Behind Est, nervously wringing her hands in the hallway, was none other than the captain herself. She was dressed in standard raiment, her black dress uniform. Gold buttons sparkled down the center and she was wearing a dress shirt underneath. A red cravat was tucked into the upper folds of her suit jacket. She had her beret tucked under her arm and a messy bob of red hair tangled down from her head. She smiled sheepishly.

“C-Captain!” Palla leapt to attention, standing tall.

“At ease, soldier,” Minerva said. She seemed so uncomfortable in her clothing, but the familiarity of her command was unmistakable.

“Sorry, Palla isn’t ready yet,” Catria explained. “Why don’t the two of you hail a cab and we’ll finish up?” saying this, she made no attempt to hide her sideways kick at Palla’s leg. “Right, Palla?”

Palla dressed quickly and made her best attempt to cover a solid day of training and no shower with perhaps a gallon of perfume. Satisfied that the scent of orange blossoms muted her own natural odor, she stepped out from their quarters into the early evening air. Est and Minerva were waiting for the two of them to arrive, a touring car poised to take them off the base and into town.

Palla still wasn’t quite used to riding in cars. They were comfortable enough, she supposed, but they were noisy and smelled of that awful black smoke, and she never trusted any vehicle that didn’t have a brain of its own. Give her a horse over this rumbling steel beast any day.

That said, she enjoyed the soft, warm breeze that caressed them as they rumbled through town, passing by streets she wished she had dedicated more time to visiting. They passed shops and restaurants and markets and inns and offices, idly chatting about this, that, or the other thing. Minerva was nearly silent, her gaze cast out from the side of the car.

“Captain?” Palla ventured softly. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Y-yes,” Minerva turned to her, responding almost as if she had been startled by the question. “Of course.” Her thoughts seemed far away.

“Are you excited about the fair?” Palla tried to bring her into the conversation. “I haven’t been in years.”

“Oh, me neither,” Minerva said, “That is to say, I’ve never been.”

“Never?!” Est cried incredulously. “How is that possible?”

“Well, my brother and I were seldom allowed to venture far from the castle,” Minerva explained. “And when we were not studying or training, we were often attending meetings with our father.”

Catria smacked Est. “Yeah, Est. Not everyone is as carefree as you, you know. Some people have actual duties.” Est stuck her tongue out and Palla shot them both a glare.

“Behave, you two,” she said. “We may be on leave, but Captain Minerva could still have your hides if she wanted to.”

“At any rate,” Est continued, heedless. “If the captain hasn’t been to the fair, that means we have to do everything! The Ferris Wheel, the carousel, we _gotta_ get funnel cakes, and, and- have you guys heard about this new thing? The uh…ice cream cone? That sounds great, right?!”

Catria and Palla smiled at each other. It had been so long since they had seen Est excited about anything that perhaps even her lack of decorum could be forgiven. As the taxi rolled through town, they listened to her chatter excitedly.

The fair was set up in the open fields to the south of the city, after the harvest cleared the crops. They could hear it and smell it before they saw it. The scent of roasting meat, fried goodies, the wafting air of cotton candy and all manners of treats and delicacies. The sound of a calliope drifted towards them on the wind, growing in intensity as they arrived at the fairgrounds.

“Here you are, ladies,” the driver said, letting them out. The four young women spilled out of the motorcar and into the grassy field, suddenly enveloped in a world of light and sound and bright color. Massive red-and-yellow striped tents dotted the grounds, each with wooden placards declaring the worlds of wonder within. A maze of mirrors, a shooting gallery, a sideshow featuring a contortionist, all manner of fantastical and surreal attractions and spectacles. Towering above it all was a Ferris Wheel, a colorful contraption of spindly steel and multicolored lights. Palla felt overwhelmed.

Est’s eyes sparkled with amazement as she dashed to and fro, running to each attraction with excitement.

“H-hey!” Catria called after her. “Wait up!” She dashed after her.

Palla looked at Minerva and shrugged.

The captain seemed even more out of place here than she had in the car. She seemed tense.

“Well…” Palla said sheepishly. “Um…is there anything you’d particularly like to do?”

Minerva was practically dazed, stunned by the assault on her senses. She shook her head.

“How about something simple?” Palla said, walking the two of them towards a shooting gallery. “This is something you’d probably be good at, right?”

“I…suppose,” Minerva said, picking up an air rifle off the counter.

“Five cents a go, missy!” the barker said, approaching them. “If you can knock down all the bottles, you win a special prize!” he said proudly, gesturing to an array of stuffed animals.

Minerva fingered the cool steel of the air rifle.

In a blaze of motion and metal, she expertly knocked down each of the stacked bottles with precise, well-placed shots.

“I should have expected nothing less from a fine soldier such as yourself!” the barker said.

Minerva selected a small stuffed cat as her prize. She and Palla stood a few paces from the booth and Minerva stared at her well-won reward. Its eyes were little orbs of black plastic, in which was reflected the bright lights of the fair and the glowing orange of the sunset-laden sky. She held it gingerly, almost as if she were afraid to break it.

Palla chuckled. “Happy with your prize, Captain?”

Minerva nodded.

“What are you going to name it?”

“Name it?”

“Of course! You have to give stuffed animals name,” Palla explained as they continued to walk the fairgrounds. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had a stuffed animal before!”

Minerva frowned. “I can’t say I have. I never had many possessions. Most of what we had was given to my brother. And my father-“ she stopped herself. “I’m sorry. We’re here to have fun, and here I am, reminiscing on my past.”

Palla shook her head. “It’s fine.” They walked in silence. It was hard NOT to think about family at a place like this. Seeing such happy families, from couples on each other’s arms to small children tugging along mothers and fathers. Men and women sharing bites of baked goods, a father carrying a small boy on his shoulders, two sisters having a playfight with small wooden swords. Palla bit back a sting of sadness.

“Um…” she spoke softly as the two of them walked. “Our mother died when we were very young,” she explained. “I never really knew my father. He left before Est was born. When…when mother died, we bounced around a lot. First a priory, then a boarding school. We went through a few foster homes, too, but none of them ever stuck. We never really had anyone but each other. When we came of age, I…I felt the military was the best choice for us. It would let me keep them safe.”

Minerva said nothing, so Palla continued.

“I thought that getting into the army would keep us close. That we’d be fed, housed, kept together.” She smiled. “It sounds sad, when I’m telling it now, but…I think it was the right choice.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Minerva asked. Her mind wandered, inevitably, to her own sister.

“I guess my point is that your family isn’t necessarily who you were born to or who raised you,” Palla said. “The world doesn’t pick your family. You do.”

The two of them stood motionless for a second, the only still figures amidst of sea of thronging fair-goers, amidst the lights and the color and the ringing of bells and the melody of a calliope. Palla was so acutely aware of everything – the scents and sounds, the way the sparkling light reflected off Minerva’s bright red hair, the way the golden sunset matched her uniform’s buttons. Her skin, soft but marred with white flecks of scars. Her lips, so pink and soft and so very _present_.

“But anyway,” Palla smiled. “Enough of all that. What do you say to a snack?”

The two shared a roll of bright pink cotton candy as they walked. It was a warm night, the soft haze of summer air fading into autumn. Palla admitted to herself that she was glad she came – it would have been such a shame to waste such a beautiful night cooped up inside. She thought back to how she would have spent her night – a book, perhaps some music. Dinner, coffee, bath, bed. And then she looked again at her surroundings – the spectacle and beauty of it all wrapped around her. More importantly, the woman she was sharing it with.

Catria, begrudgingly, had been right. Palla had indeed been trying to get closer to their Captain. Not just for logistical reasons, but because the woman herself interested her. Something about her – so stoic and strong, so seemingly disconnected from her own actions. She was as mysterious and alluring as she was beautiful and imposing.

“PALLA!” Est almost collided into Palla as she sprinted between two tents and into her sister’s arms. “Palla, Palla! Come ride the Ferris Wheel with me!”

Palla gently pushed her sister back. “Why do I have to? Can’t you do it with Catria?”

Est pouted. “She’s with her dumb girlfriend again. I was going to ask her but the two of them were getting hot dogs.”

Palla turned to Minerva. “What do you say to that?”

“I’d be delighted,” Minerva smiled.

The three of them made their way to the Ferris Wheel, deftly navigating the crowds as Est excitedly explained what she had been up to.

“Catria didn’t wanna go into the house of mirrors so I did that by myself,” she said. “It was really spooky! It was all dark, and some of the mirrors made me look all funny! Some made me thin, and some made me look fat! I got lost for a little bit, but then I found my way out again.”

“Mmhm,” Palla nodded. She shrugged at Minerva.

“And then Catria took me on the carousel! It was fast and I got sick cause I ate too much cotton candy before. But Catria’s girlfriend had a handkerchief, so it was okay!”

“Is her girlfriend nice?” Palla asked. They had met only in passing, though Catria often mentioned her.

“Uhuh!” Est nodded. “She has a funny accent, though.”

“She’s from Talys, right?”

“Yep! You can tell cause she’s so tan.”

Minerva froze. “Did you say Talys?”

“Uhuh!” Est nodded. “She’s a dimplomat, I think.”

“A diplomat, Est,” Palla corrected. Minerva’s strange reaction wasn’t lost on her. Again, that tenseness.

“Whatever. It means she has lots of money, so she bought Catria like, three goes on the tilt-a-whirl.”

Palla laughed. They reached the foot of the Ferris Wheel quickly, and Palla felt her stomach sink.

“Nervous?” Minerva asked. “You’re in the Air Force, you know. You can’t be afraid of heights.”

“It’s not the height!” Palla explained as they got in line. “Look, I trust airplanes. That thing, though?” she looked up at the wheel. It extended up into the darkening twilight, and from the base it did indeed seem to be creaking and swaying as the bright cars moved in their slow orbits. The line moved slowly enough for Palla to have studied every inch of the wheel’s rickety frame. The rusted, white-painted metal frame, the flickering and flashing bulbs, the bright banners and flags adorning each of the cars.

The three of them slid into a car and the ride attendant shut the door behind them. Palla settled somewhat uncomfortably onto the worn leather seat. No seatbelts. She grimaced.

Est sat on the bench across from them and almost immediately turned around to lean out of the car.

“B-be careful!” Palla said, almost leaning forward to pull her back. As she did, the car rocked and Palla felt her stomach lurch.

“It’s amazing!” Est shouted, leaning out into the night air. “You can see so far! It’s all so beautiful!”

“It is quite lovely,” Minerva agreed. Palla would have agreed were she not clutching, white-knuckled, to the bench beneath them.

“Oh my god!” Est cackled. “Look!” she spun around and pointed up to the car below them. Palla ventured a lean out to glimpse at the passengers Est was indicating.

Her middle sister was almost entirely entwined with another girl, a tan, slender girl with long blue hair. She and Catria were locked into a tender embrace, the sweetness of which did not counteract or disguise the fact that their tongues were in each other’s mouths.

“EW! GROSS!” Est cried, pointing a finger.

Catria broke her and Caeda’s kiss and looked upwards, her face turning the same shade as their captain’s hair.

“EST?!”  Catria cried in embarrassment.

“PALLA AND THE CAPTAIN ARE HERE TOO!” Est shouted. “WE ALL SAW YOU SWAPPIN’ SPIT!”

Catria scowled and her partner laughed, clearly enjoying herself.

“THAT’S IT!” Catria shouted back. “YOU’RE DEAD! I’M GONNA KICK YOUR A-“ her threat was cut short by Caeda tugging her aside into another kiss, this one a bit more chaste.

Est cackled with glee.

Palla smiled and giggled a bit at Minerva, who let slip a small grin. The car rocked again as Est leaned out to taunt her sister more and Palla’s smile evaporated as she again clutched the car in terror.

Minerva rested her hand on Palla’s leg. “Nothing to be nervous about,” she said. “It’s been running smoothly all night.”

“Y-yeah,” Palla stammered, now nervous for an entirely different reason.

Minerva took her hand and squeezed it gently. “When my sister, Maria, gets nervous, she finds it comforting to hold my hand. Is this okay?”

Palla nearly fainted. “Sure,” she nodded, trying very hard to not melt into a green puddle. Minerva’s hand felt firm and comforting. Even with such soft, slight contact, she could feel the roughness of Minerva’s fingers. The hard shape of calluses and scars etched into her skin.

She looked out at the city. It was a beautiful night, and the skies sparkled with starlight overhead. The fairgrounds spread out before them, tents and light and throngs of people spilling out into the fields, and beyond that the reaches of the city, the rows of townhouses and offices and shops, and beyond that, even farther, was the airfield. Past that, even farther, was the castle. Somewhere in that castle was King Osmond, Minerva’s father. And then, beyond even that, was the horizon line, demarcated by the jagged teeth of the mountains striking upwards into the sky.

Seeing it all from the cockpit of a plane was one thing, but to see it like this – the beauty and splendor of Macedon, not as a green and brown blur but as a static image, a painting of beautiful, rustic peace. And beside her, fingers entwined, was Captain – no, not captain. Minerva. Minerva, her friend. Palla smiled and squeezed Minerva’s hand. As the Ferris Wheel spun, Palla felt herself getting lost in the evening. And even as they found themselves once more grounded, she allowed herself to get swept away into the river of fried food and melodic pianos and yellow-and-red striped tents and children and families and all the beauty that Macedon’s strength allowed.

It was a night that she wished would never end.

But end it did, as all things must. Palla often thought back to that night, as the world grew darker and darker. How, she asked herself, could a world that produced such beauty and joy be capable of such horrid cruelty? She hadn’t expected to ever serve in a war. When she and her sisters joined the army, Macedon was enjoying splendor and peace. Under King Osmond, the nation flourished and the army was maintained for its own sake, not for the sake of fighting wars. But King Osmond was assassinated, and Michalis took the throne, and there were no more fairs, not anymore. There were no more days of carefree fun, no more nights of revelry and jubilation.

Palla often thought back to that night, especially on operations. Out under the starlight, the horizon framed in mountains edged with the gold of sunset. The world could be so beautiful, and that was what she held tight to. A world where her sisters could laugh and love without fear. A world she continued to fight for, even as the bombs fell and the factories churned out guns and the planes got outfitted with machine guns and the people dug trenches and the schools began bombing drills.

No matter how far she flew, it was to that home she returned to – a world of peace, where her sisters were happy and free. A world where she sat with her fingers entwined in Minerva’s, where they shared food and drink and held hands as they walked through the night.

-

Palla held Minerva’s hand tightly. She listened to the rain beat against the window and the roof. Thunder crackled overhead, the sound alone threatening to tear the wooden farmhouse to pieces.

She clutched tightly to Minerva’s hand and squeezed. The rain-soaked window cast a mottled gray light across Minerva’s prone form, tucked under blankets and swathed in bandages and stained with blood. She squeezed her eyes shut. Minerva’s hand felt so cold. A pulse was there, but faint.

If Minerva lived through this, Palla decided, she would tell her. She would confess that she loved her. Because there was nothing else for them. The four of them, their rifles, this farmhouse in the Archanean wilderness, and their love for each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to @detectiveroboryan who FALSELY implied I don't write fluff. So here's a chapter thats 99% cutesy gay fluff, are you happy now??


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took eight years but it's like 6k so...enjoy!

Minerva woke slowly, pulled from a delirious and troubled slumber by the dull, aching pain in her chest. It was a pain that grew, rising up through her nervous system until she had no choice but to open her eyes and address the problem head-on.

She groaned.

Her eyes showed her a bedroom. Not __hers__ , not by any stretch of the imagination. It was a plain enough room, the wallpaper a bit tacky for her taste, the hardwood floor dusty and worn. There was a dresser pushed against the far wall, an armchair in the far corner, and a desk underneath a window whose blinds were drawn tightly shut. She could see through slips in the blind a sort of gray half-light.

She leaned back and the motion send pain tunneling down her spine and into her leg. She groaned again and tried to sit up, tried to take stock of her body, tried to figure out just where the hell she __was__. It was a futile effort - there was a black-and-white photograph in a handcarved frame resting on the dresser, but it was too far to make out the contents of the image. She managed to push herself to a sitting position and brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

As she did, her fingers came into contact with a band of white cloth wrapped around her forehead. A bandage. She prodded her forehead and her skull ached in return.

She was nearly naked, a fact that did little to comfort her - bandages were swathed around her chest, and her leg was propped up and bandaged as well. Her only clothing seemed to be a loose-fitted nightshirt and a pair of men’s short-pants. She fingered the fabric with suspicion and tried to remember what had happened.

The mission had gone…wrong, somewhere along the line. She was shot down. She remembered…Palla. And Catria, and a great deal of gunfire. And then a haze of blood and pain, a half-remembered dream of rain and forest and Palla’s concerned face. She grimaced, pushed her blanket off with a grunt, and swung her legs over the side of the bed.

“Now, now,” a matronly voice cooed. “We’ll be having none of that.”

Minerva twisted her neck, in a flash directing her attention to the entrance to the room, one hand unconsciously dropping to her waist, fumbling for a pistol that was not there. She looked wildly from the doorway to the bedside table, where her hand was already sifting through the contents of the drawer. She kept her gun by her bed, so why…

“Something wrong?” the woman in the doorway stepped forward.

Minerva growled and slammed the drawer, holding a hand up in warning and defense. “Stay back.” She glared at the woman. “Where’s my gun?”

The woman smiled sadly. “There’s no need for that, dear. We’re all friends here.”

Minerva curled her hand into a fist in her lap. The woman was short, portly, middle-aged, and the wrinkles in her cheeks suggested the kindly demeanor of a shopkeeper, perhaps. Certainly not a soldier, or worse - a Macedon agent. She tottered across the room to Minerva’s bedside, a tray of supplies in her hand.

“Here?” Minerva asked her as she set the tray on the bedside table. “Where is…here? Who are you?”

The woman smiled kindly. “Why, my name’s Winnifred, but you can call me Win. This is my farm. As for __where__ , you’re in Southern Archanea, about ten miles from the coast.”

“From my clothes and speech, you must know that I am Macedonian.”

The woman nodded and gently pushed Minerva back. “Sit back, dear, let me change your bandage.” She set to work unwrapping Minerva’s head, washing a crust of dried blood from her scalp, and rewrapping it. “Yes, yes. Your friend told me all about your… _ _daring__  escape from Macedon. I must say, I don’t think I’d have it in me to abandon my homeland like that, but…perhaps our princess is a mite kinder than your king. With those uniforms you came in with, and all that blood, I assumed the worst, but…any enemy of King Michalis is a friend of ours.”

Minerva frowned. The woman spoke as she worked, but it was the idle gossip of an old country yokel, a chattering of rumors and ideas, praise of Princess Nyna and criticism of that dastard king, talk of the war in the front up north, complaints about the rationing of supplies and the struggle to sell at market price when the government is snatching up half your crop for rations.

Her words churned in Minerva’s stomach, though. __Daring escape…abandoning Macedon__ …just what sort of lie had they fed this poor woman?

“What…what did she say?”

“Mm?” the woman ceased her ministrations over Minerva’s injured leg.

“You said she told you of our escape.”

“That’s right. The green-haired one, the tall, pretty one. She said that you were deserters, here to escape the war.”

Minerva prayed her heavy brow would not betray her despair. She had __not__  abandoned Macedon. She had __not__ , __she had not, she…__

__

“I must say, that short woman sure does know her way around a farm. Cat-something? Cat…catra…” the woman shrugged. “Those sisters have all certainly been a boon to use these few days. Ever since my son moved away - he was drafted for the war, you see, and he-”

Her words faded out as Minerva’s mind reeled, trying to grasp onto her predicament. Palla had lied, then. Claimed them to be deserters. Enemies of Macedon. She spoke up, cutting off the woman’s rambling. “Where is she now? The green-haired woman?”

“Hm? Oh, I sent her to get something to eat. She hasn’t left your side these past few days, and I had to pry her off you to get her to sleep in a proper bed.”

Minerva shifted, sliding out of bed and landing on her feet. “I think I would like to stretch my legs. Would you kindly direct me to the rest of my squ-” she cut herself off instinctively, as pain rippled through her thigh and she slipped. She managed to catch herself on the bed, but her face burned with embarrassment at the display of weakness. She gritted her teeth and pushed herself upright.

“A crutch might help,” Win helpfully suggested.

 

-

 

 

Palla sat at the breakfast table, stirring a bowl of porridge with disinterest as she listened to Est chatter.

“And I got to help shovel out the stables! It was so __fun!__  The horses were all so much bigger than I thought they would be! They smelled a little bit funny, but I think that’s just how horses are.”

Catria smiled and nudged Palla’s ribs. “You in there?”

Palla nodded, her exhaustion showing on her face. She had spent the past two days as the nurse to Win’s doctor, helping her tend to Minerva after they had shown up on the farm doorstep, drenched with rain and soaked in blood. She had barely slept. In the intervening time, Catria and Est had helped out around the farm.

“You remember the farm on the Dolhr border?” Catria asked, tentatively poking at the pitcher of orange juice in the middle of the table. “Est was too little to remember.”

Palla nodded again, sitting upright. “That was a dairy, though.”

“Eh,” Catria shrugged, pouring herself a glass at last. “Farms are farms, that’s what I say. You gotta shovel shit either way.”

Palla gave a hollow laugh.

The three sisters sat at the dining room table nestled in the kitchen of the small two-story farmhouse. The floor was patterned linoleum, the walls were papered with a hideous floral pattern, and somehow Palla just couldn’t shake the feeling of discomfort, of unease. It wasn’t about Minerva - she had stabilized, and was on bed rest, but would be fine. She felt something crawling just below her skin, a pressing anxiety that bled into all of her thoughts. Macedon, Archanea, guns and planes and blood sprayed across the forest floor. She zoned out, her gaze fixed on a single daffodil image pressed into the wallpaper.

It seemed so far from the war, here.

“So where is Ms. Caldwell, anyway?” Est asked, kicking her feet up on the table. Catria pushed them down.

“ _ _Mrs.__  Caldwell is upstairs, tending to the commander,” she said. “And her wife is out working in the stables. So we’re going to stay here, until we find out when we’re needed for something. Got it?”

“Right, right,” Est waved her hand. “I was just hoping to be able to do some riding while we’re here. Wouldn’t that be fun, Palla?”

Palla nodded, still lost in thought. “Mmhm.” She looked up, suddenly, her eyes wide. “C-Commander!” She got to her feet, sending her chair clattering to the floor as she sprinted across the kitchen.

Minerva limped down the stairs slowly, resting heavily on a wooden crutch. She flashed a weak smile to the breakfast table. “Good morning.” As she lands at the bottom of the stairs, a large, fluffy dog comes barreling out of the living room towards her. For a moment fear flashed in her eyes and she instinctively flinched into a defensive position.

Above her on the stairs, her host chuckled. “Oh, that’s just ol’ Flannel. He won’t hurt you none.”

True to her word, the dog scuttled to Minerva’s legs, tail wagging, and ran in tight circles around her. She smiled and knelt weakly, raising a shaking hand to pet him. He barked.

“Commander!” Palla said, taking Minerva’s arm and trying to support her. “Should you be resting?”

“She should,” Win replied, heading for the kitchen. “But somehow, I get the feeling she won’t be listening to any sensible medical advice.”

“That’s our commander,” Catria says, smiling. “Are you feeling better?”

“In all honesty, no. But we need to be moving as soon as possible.”

“Moving?” Win frowned. “Y’all are welcome to stay, if you’ve got no place else to go.”

Minerva looked to Palla. “We should be-”

“Staying would be lovely,” Palla cut her off. “Especially while Minerva needs to rest. But we can’t impose any further than we have already.”

“Oh, nonsense,” Win waved a hand. “We’ve the space, and having a few spare hands around the farm has been great. You’ve certainly done more than enough to earn your keep. Speaking of, would one of you ladies like to join me for our morning patrol?”

 

-

 

 

Palla tightened her grip on the reins of her horse, pulling him into a brisk trot. It was a cool morning, foggy and grey, and the farmland was blanketed in mist. Her borrowed jacket didn’t quite fit right, but the alternative was parading around in Macedonian military attire, so she opted for it regardless. Rifle slung over her shoulder, reins in hand, she guided her horse behind another woman.

Sara Caldwell was a tall women, taller than her wife by a head-and-a-half, and on a horse she seemed even taller. She sat up straight, her riding gloves taut, her posture impeccable.

“Ex-military?” Palla asked.

“What gave it away?” Sara smiled, trying to relax her posture a bit.

“The way you hold the reins. Cavalry?”

“That’s right.” Sara tugged the reins and the two riders left the trail, circling around a shoddy wooden fence that looked like it had seen better days - or perhaps better centuries. “I was drafted during the skirmishes when Gra formed. Altea needed able-bodied soldiers. You a draft woman as well?”

Palla laughed, and the sound echoed in the clear morning air. “No, I…I signed up willingly. Foolishly.”

“Easy money?”

Palla shifted in her saddle and readjusted her boots in the stirrups. She could feel the weight of the rifle pressing against her back. “Something like that.”

“I can’t stand ‘em.”

“Hm?” Palla asked, curious.

“Soldiers.” Sara turned her horse. “Far as I can tell, all they’re in it for is the money. Like, take this war.” She slowed to a trot and took her hands off the reins to tie up her hair. “What’s this fight even about? What skin does Archanea have in the game?”

“W-well, Archanea is allied with Altea,” Palla suggested. “And Macedon with Gra and Grust.”

“thirty years ago, I was fighting Gra,” Sara frowned. “On Altea’s side. And what did that earn? Nothing for me, nothing but a bad shoulder and ten years of misery. But for the rich folk? Altea made out like bandits in that war. Nothing but war profiteers. The people at the top, just lining their coffers with the blood of the innocent.”

Palla pursed her lips and her mind raced, desperate to come up with something to discuss - anything but the war, anything but her service to the enemy of these people, her allegiance to the princess of Macedon. “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you and…”

 

“Oh, how did we meet? Well, as I said, I served in the military when I was younger. She was the daughter of the man who owned this land.” She waved a hand out, gesturing to the fields. Palla looked at the sheep grazing in the meadow. They seemed a little thin to her. “Back then, the land was a…what’s the word. Cornucopia. Too many crops for just the family and farmhands. They hired me, and…” she shrugged, then smiled at Palla somewhat mischievously. Then she frowned. “Ah, shit.”

 

“A problem?”

Sara turned her horse and broke into a gallop across the fields. “Wolves,” she muttered, slinging her rifle around.

Palla followed suit, riding close behind and raising her rifle. She spied them - flashes of grey fur among the sheep.

“Hold fire,” Sara said, readying a shot. “Don’t want to risk hitting the livestock.” Palla nodded in agreement.

A wolf lunged, tackling a sheep to the ground and tearing into it. A flash of fangs, then dark red on soft white. Palla fired without thinking. Her shot landed perfectly, knocking the wolf from the sheep’s body and sending it sprawling to the grass in a bloody, crumpled heap. __Military-grade rounds,__ she thought wryly. The shot sent the flock scattering, bleating and mewling as they break into a panicked frenzy.

“Ten o’clock!” Palla cried, and Sara rotated, firing off a shot and downing a second wolf. Palla fired again.

“Shit,” Sara swore again, regrouping with Palla and looking at their bloody handiwork. Three wolves and two sheep down, and a whole flock in a wild frenzy. “Here, circle around. You know how to herd, right?”

Palla nodded and did as instructed.

 

It took them the better part of the morning to herd the sheep back into a flock, and Sara had them herd the flock to a meadow closer to the farmhouse. It was easy work, it was simple work. Compared to fixing greasy engines, or flying attack runs, or meeting with generals? This was a veritable vacation. Palla reveled in it - the cool air on her skin, the light rain pattering against her jacket, a rifle slung over her shoulder, truly used in __defense__. The simple morality of tending to livestock.

Catria and Est took on similar roles, working around the farmhouse, fixing up fences, cleaning out the stables, feeding the livestock. Est took a particular liking to milking cows, and once Catria had to stop her from attempting to drink fresh milk.

“It’s not healthy!” she said, tugging Est away from the cow. “Listen, it had to be…uh…”

“What?” Est pushed back. “Milk is milk, right? You put it in a bottle and its the same thing!”

“Pasteurized, Catria?” Win cracked a smile.

“Yeah, that!” Catria scowled. Est stepped on a patch of wet hay and slipped, toppling to the ground and spilling a bucket of milk.

“Aha! Can’t stop me now!” she shouted, licking the spilt milk from her arms. She immediately regretted it, making a face, sticking her tongue out, and shaking her head. “Eww, bleh!”

“What did I __tell__  you?!”

Win laughed.

Minerva, too, kept busy, though her injuries necessitated a somewhat more muted approach to helping out around the farm. Under Sara’s tutelage she helped with cooking and cleaning, and after a week she could bake a half-decent loaf of bread without assistance. She was healing, slowly. But even so, the doubt remained. The doubt and the fear, hanging over their heads like a black thundercloud.

 

“We have to tell them,” Palla said, one evening. She knelt at Minerva’s side, dipping a rag into a bucket of soapy water. Minerva lay in a brass tub, her injured leg propped up as Palla helped bathe her.

 

“Tell them what?”

 

“The truth. Who we are.”

 

“We are who you said. We are deserters.” Minerva’s face was stern, gazing at the tiled bathroom wall with disdain.

 

“You are the princess of Macedon. Every day that we remain here, they’re put at risk. You know that.” Palla runs the washcloth over Minerva’s shoulder, scrubbing a crust of dirt away. She had finally felt well enough to help in the stables, and she certainly looked the part. Palla scowled. “Look at you. Your shoulder wound opened again. You’re pushing yourself too hard.”

 

“What would you have me do, then?” Minerva sat up. “Tell them the truth, so that they will kill us, or turn us out? You say I need to heal, but-”

 

“They just need to know what they’re getting into! It’s been nearly two weeks, Commander. Someone will come looking for us. Macedonians, or Arks, or-”

 

“Shh,” Minerva shushed her. “Don’t use that word, not where they could hear.”

 

“S-sorry,” Palla muttered sheepishly, running a hand through her hair. She tied her green locks up into a ponytail and leaned over the tub. “I just…I’m worried, commander. We can’t stay here, not like this.”

“Tell them, then.”

“Commander…” Palla’s voice softened. “I will not go over your head for this.”

“I am no commander,” Minerva scowled. “I am no princess.” She glared at the bullet wound in her leg, the healing scar tissue and the dark brown scabs. “I am skin and blood, just as you. Less, even.”

Palla dropped the washcloth and took Minerva’s chin in her hands. “C-commander…” She swallows. “M-Minerva, I…you…” she grits her teeth. “No, Minerva. You are…you’re so much more than that. You’re…” she lowers her head and presses her forehead to Minerva’s. “You’re family.”

They stay like that, frozen still, Minerva waist-deep in tepid bathwater, Palla splattered with mud and soapy water, weariness in their faces. And for that moment, Palla closes her eyes. She feels the heat from Minerva’s cheeks, the steam of the bathroom, and she pretends. She pretends this is the life they had chosen - not one of blood, of steel and guns and engines and war, but one of quiet peace. Awful linoleum flooring and fresh-baked bread. Palla had fired her gun three times in the past two weeks, and were it up to her, she would never lift it again, save in defence of her family.

She opened her eyes at last and let her hand fall from the back of Minerva’s head. Minerva, too, seemed lost in thought, her eyes drifting to the tub’s brass spout, unfocused and hazy. Her chest rising and falling slowly.

“I’m…I’m sorry, commander.” Palla stood and draped the washcloth over the side of the tub. “Call me if you need assistance.” She stopped at the bathroom door, her hand on the knob, and took a deep breath.

__Say something. Say anything. Ask me to stay._ _

__

The latch opened with a click and Palla stepped into the hall, feeling eyes boring into her back.

 

-

 

 

“Is that all, then?” Sara said, laughing. Win looked at her like she had suddenly sprouted horns.

“All? As if they hadn’t lied to us for two weeks!” she cried. Palla looked sheepishly into her half-finished slice of pie. The four of them sat opposite the homeowners at the dinner table, speaking softly over a candlelit dessert. Est dragged her fork around her plate, scraping together a pile of blackberry. Having finished hers, she reached a probing fork toward’s Catria’s untouched plate. Catria sighed and pushed her plate Est’s direction.

“I’m sorry,” Minerva said, bowing her head. “You deserved to know the truth. You have been more than kind to us.”

“We mean no harm,” Palla says quickly. “B-but, you see, we’re still enemies of Archanea. The army will come looking for us.”

“And when they do? Then what?” Win frowned. “Will you turn yourselves over to them?”

“Well…” Palla frowned. “We…” It was no simple matter to confess to war crimes. Their execution would be swift and widely publicized. “No,” she said at last. “No, we can’t. If they come, we need to hide. If that’s not something you can do, we understand. But we think it’s fair that you know.”

“So what __is__  your plan, then?” Sara asked, brushing her silvering hair back. “Do you have one?”

“Altea,” Catria said, speaking up at last. “If we can reach the Altean line, we can talk to the command and organize some sort of exchange. We don’t want to fight, you must understand. But we are enemies of Archanea, and we will remain so until we manage to clear this whole mess up.”

“Altea’s a long way,” Sara raised an eyebrow. “That’s quite a journey on foot.”

“Well, we just need to reach the front. I’ve been looking at some of the maps in your study,” Catria explains. “It would take a few weeks, longer on foot, but…perhaps we could…buy some horses, or something.”

“Horses are a valuable thing,” Win scoffs. “You don’t even have clothes to trade.”

“We have guns,” Palla said. “Military-grade rifles, ammunition. They’ll be worth a fortune, especially during rationing.”

Sara nodded. “We’ll need to give it some thought.” She reached to the side and wrapped a hand tightly around Win’s, squeezing. She smiled, trying to appear confident and in control. “In the meantime, you can stay and work, and…well, we’ll see what happens when the army shows up.”

Palla felt something twisting in the pit of her gut. She tries to ignore the weight of the pistol strapped to her hip, tucked beneath a borrowed knit blouse and strapped over borrowed denim work-pants. She closed her eyes and rested her hands on the table. “Think quickly,” she said. “I don’t know how much time you’ll have.” She worried that they would have none.

 

-

 

 

Palla had been correct.

They had living on the Caldwell farmstead for eighteen days before the Archanean army found them. It started simply, with a knock at the door. Palla and Est sat together on the floor of the living room, playing a game of checkers. Minerva was in the kitchen, helping prepare meat for preservation. Catria was in the basement, helping Win fix the pipes. The knock rang clear and loud, echoing through the early morning stillness.

Palla’s mind leapt to the four Macedonian uniforms, tattered and bloody, draped on a laundry line in the basement. She looked up.

Another knock, and Sara walked slowly to the door. She turned to Palla.

The Whitewings were entirely at the mercy of the woman answering the door. Sara smiles brightly, opening the front door, holding her hand out in welcome. “Hello! How can I help you?”

“Hello, Miss…” the man who answers was dressed in a crisp uniform Palla immediately identified as belonging to the military police. “Miss…Callwell, is it?”

“Caldwell,” Sara said, shaking his hand. “Something I can help you with, sir?”

“Perhaps,” he said, peering around her at the two women laying on the floor. Palla set down her checkers piece and stood, using Est to her feet. “We’re looking for four fugitives. Enemy spies, sent to infiltrate our great nation and steal our secrets.”

“Spies, huh,” Sara said, leaning against the doorframe. “Well, can’t say I seen any of ‘em around here.”

“May I come in?” the man asks.

Sara frowned. “If it’s all the same, I’d rather you didn’t. We’re quite busy right now, Mister…?”

“Busy?” he raised an eyebrow. “If two farmhands playing games counts as busy, I’m in the wrong line of work.”

“These spies,” Sara frowns. “Any idea what they look like?”

“Reports mention a woman with stark red hair, and a woman with long green hair.” He looked past Sara, pointedly glaring at Est and Palla. “What are your names, ladies?”

Sara folded her arms over her chest. “Excuse you, __sir.__  These are my workers, and I can vouch for them. If you-”

Before she could finish, the man shoved her and stepped through the door, rifle raised. Two more uniformed men follow suit.

“Sara Caldwell,” the man said, pressing his gun against her. “You are under arrest, charged on suspicion of treason and harboring enemies of the state.”

Three more soldiers followed into the living room, training their rifles on Palla and Est. “Up,” one barks. “On your feet.”

Palla lifted her arms and whispered to Est. “Come on, Est. Do as you’re told.”

Sara raised her arms. “Woah, woah, woah! Hey, calm down there, fellas! What’s the matter, here?”

“Shut up,” the first man said, hitting Sara with the butt of his gun. She grunted and toppled to the floor.

Palla pursed her lips, scanning the situation. To say it wasn’t looking good would have been the understatement of the century. Sara writhed on the floor, and guns were trained on all three of them.

“Where are the others?” snapped the man, who Palla assumed to be a captain.

“T-there aren’t others,” Sara muttered, pushing herself to her knees. “It’s just us. I t-took these folks in.”

The captain kicked her and she grunted. “Fucker,” she muttered. He pressed the rifle but into her back and barked orders at his men. “Search the house. The others are here somewhere. Find them.”

Palla and Est looked at each other, their hands on their heads. Est’s eyes were wide and full of fear.

“It’s okay, Est,” Palla whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

“Quiet!” shouted one of the soldiers. He hit her stomach with his gun and she buckled.

The other men dispersed, quickly moving through the house, first checking bottom floor. Finding the kitchen empty they moved upstairs.

“Where are they?!” shouted the captain, hitting Sara again. “I know you’re hiding them, traitor!”

Sara grunted and spit. “I was a soldier, you know,” she growled. “You know what I did? Killed men who just wanted independence. What makes you think your cause is so great?”

The captain growled and pulled back the bolt on his rifle. “You bitch.”

A gunshot rang out and Palla sprung into action, stepping between Est and the other soldiers. She grabbed the muzzle of his gun and twisted, wrenching it from his grip and smashing but butt into his knee. She whirls around, firing off two shots and downing the man who had been pointing his gun at Est. She turns, facing the captain, who had managed to pull himself together enough to point his gun at Palla.

They stood there, motionless, gunsmoke drifting up from Palla’s barrel, their rifled aimed at each other.

Palla growled. “I don’t want to kill you.”

“Macedon scum.”

Sara rolled, sweeping her legs out and knocking his legs out from under him. He toppled to the ground and Palla leaped across the gap, smashing the butt of her gun into him. More gunshots rang out from upstairs, and Catria burst out of the basement door, pistol drawn. “What’s happening?” she cried.

“Arks,” Palla snarls, tossing a rifle to Est. “Come on, we need to find the commander.”

Sara pushed herself weakly to her feet and pulled the rifle from the hand of the unconscious captain. She nodded. “I’ll watch the front.”

As she says that, gunshots smash the living room window, shattering the glass and peppering the back wall. Est dives, tackling Sara to the ground out of the way.

“Est, Catria, stay here and protect Sara,” Palla said. “I’m getting the commander.”

Rifle in hand, Palla sprinted up the stairs. In the hall she found a dead Archanean soldier slumped against the wall, blood splattered behind him, and then a second, collapsed in the doorway to Minerva’s bedroom.

Palla rounded the corner and a shot rang out. She ducked, raising her hands. “Woah, woah, Commander! It’s me!”

Minerva was slumped back against her bed, crutch on the floor beside her, smoking pistol in hand. “Palla!”

“Alright, Commander,” Palla knelt at her side. “We need to get out of here.” She grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet. “Can you walk with the crutch?”

Minerva nodded. Crutch in one hand, gun in the other, she followed Palla out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

“Catria!” Palla shouted. “What’s the situation?”

Sara, Catria and Est were crouched behind the overturned couch, and the walls were riddled with bullets.

“Two trucks,” Catria said, standing up and returning fire. “One empty. Well…” she looks to the corpses on the ground. “One truck.”

Palla nodded. She crouched at the bottom of the stairs and fired out the front door, covering Minerva as she limped back to the kitchen. “Here’s the plan,” she said. “We’re going to cover Minerva until she can get to the barn, then follow suit. We’ll take the horse and go north, past the trucks and across the meadow. With any luck, they’ll follow us and leave the rest of the farm alone.” She knelt at Sara’s side. “I’m…I’m so, so, sorry, Sara. Go, hide in the basement with Win. I promise, we’ll…we’ll make it up to you somehow.”

Minerva limped to the barn first and sat on a haybale, waiting for her company to join her. Est and Catria followed, and they helped her climb up onto a horse. Palla, ducking fire, came last. She dove, landing behind a haybale and crawling the remaining distance. She waved to her sisters. “Go, go! I’ll follow! Take the trail north.”

Catria helped Est up onto a horse and joined her, wrapping her arms around her younger sister and taking the reins. She kicked, and off she went, crashing through the barn door and out into the fields. Minerva followed second, leaning heavily against her own horse and barely supporting herself. Even so, her pistol dangled from one hand.

And then Palla came last. She leapt onto her horse and kicked it, galloping out after her sisters. She raised her rifled high, shooting at the scattered soldiers spreading out through the property. Gunshots rang out, bullets whistled through the air, and the farmhouse fell apart under the rain of lead. Palla snarled, firing out of vengeance as much as self-preservation. These fuckers were willing to tear apart their own country. There was no honor in that. The war had made them all desperate, and there was no source of power worse than the military police - they stole from the citizens, they pushed them around, they enforced wartime law. They reminded Palla of King Michalis - cruelty masquerading as austerity. She pulled the trigger.

Gunshots rang out in the early morning, and hoofbeats pulsed against the dirt, and in her borrowed jacket Palla ran. She followed the trail of her sisters and her commander, and behind her left the smoking ruins of the farmhouse.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, exciting news! If you like my writing, you can now commission me! You can contact me at cowboysneep@gmail.com or shoot me a DM at lucisevofficial.tumblr.com to discuss.


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